Was this something women just had to endure? Or was this an unhealthy, clear sign to get out of my marriage? That thought was almost as frightening as leaving the FLDS had been.
One early morning in August 2005, as we were leaving for a trip to visit family in Salt Lake, Ben fell asleep at the wheel and we got into a serious accident. To our relief, Kyle was not injured. I sustained some severe injuries to my knee, and Ben was deeply affected. The young and generally invincible man I’d married no longer seemed that way, and it seemed like a sign to stick beside him. Our marriage rebounded for a brief moment, but by the time Kyle and I went to Coos Bay to perform Christmas Opry, I was ready for a break from Ben’s continued requests for lovers.
In early 2006, my little sister Amelia left the FLDS and her home in Bountiful, British Columbia, and came to live with us in Idaho. Her turmoil was written on her face, and my heart ached for her, not just because of the trauma of leaving the church but because she had young children she was trying to gain custody of. When any woman with children left the FLDS, she didn’t have to take on just her former husband, but the wealthy FLDS church and its seasoned, well-paid lawyers. Amelia had a long road ahead of her.
Despite being on the run, Warren wielded tremendous power, and it felt like he could get away with just about anything. He continued to elude officials, although his brother Seth was caught trying to bring him over $140,000 in cash, multiple cell phones, and letters from loyal followers, all of which were seized by law enforcement. Seth only got his hands slapped and was let off, which made me mad. That $140,000 constituted the tithes of some very hardworking families, and Seth knew it. What did Warren need that kind of money for? I wondered. In April 2006, I read in the paper that Washington County attorney Brock Belnap had charged Warren with two counts of rape as an accomplice, a first-degree felony. Fifth District Court Judge James E. Shumate signed a $50,000 reward for Warren’s arrest. I hoped that would spur someone to turn him in.
A month later, just before Ben and I bought our first home, Warren made the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list. The reward increased from $50,000 to $100,000. Warren’s undercover games, his continued refusal to show up for depositions and court proceedings, and his flagrant disregard for the law had finally made him a prime target for the feds. His reckless abandon spoke volumes of Warren’s desire to be known as a martyr for his people, and unfortunately, it was working. During this time, many thousands of members remained intensely loyal to him, a loyalty only intensified by their distrust of the government.
The search for Warren was heating up in Utah and in Texas. There were times that Sheriff Doran was almost certain Warren was on the ranch. Judge David Doyle and Kathy Mankin did periodic flyovers to check on the secretive sect. I wondered if they ever saw my sisters, but no news ever came in of the girls.
In the early summer months of 2006, Ben’s little brother Wendell was kicked out on orders from Warren, and he came to live with us for a time. Unlike Scott or Ben, Wendell had been a devotee of Warren, secretly entrusted with the care of many of Warren’s wives in houses of hiding across the West. It was in these remote and various shelters that Warren placed massive amounts of his growing harem of wives, away from the law and prying eyes. Wendell told us that Warren had been amassing even more wives than his father had, perhaps more than a hundred. He did know that some of his recent wives were as young as twelve years old. With deep sadness, I listened to stories of the twisted behaviors Warren used to belittle his wives, to pit them against one another so as to dissolve any solidarity. Wendell said that Warren kept them focused on his desires for them: each had to be tiny and rail thin, and ready to give herself as a comfort wife to him at any moment during his underground flight.
Wendell knew about only a small portion of Warren’s activities, as the Prophet deliberately shared with each devotee just one piece of the intricate puzzle he was constructing. I couldn’t be sure about his first and second counselors in the Presidency, but others were clearly left in the dark. Wendell talked of his secretive missions across the United States, following the Prophet’s paranoid and urgent whims. After receiving calls in the middle of the night complete with code words, disguises, and directions, Wendell would leave in the dark, drive to whatever remote location his Prophet requested, and pick up one or more of Warren’s wives to transport covertly from one location to another, and then start all over the next night. Warren had a complex system of technological communications—phone, video, and e-mails with which to give his directives to his people and to his web of personal emissaries like Wendell.
Living at a house in hiding in Colorado, Wendell followed Warren’s orders to the letter, but all the secrecy was taking its toll. As a caretaker, he was required to be a father figure, strong and pure in the sight of the Lord, and not to allow his thoughts to wander in lust. Loyal and obedient to Warren’s every directive, he was caught up in the web of Warren’s self-created drama and mystery. Wendell struggled from the same high level of anxiety that Warren’s wives did. A young man, he also missed the camaraderie of his brothers and friends, but absolute secrecy was essential for the protection of the Prophet.
Once in a while, Wendell would go out for a drink to relax or drown his loneliness. One night after a weeklong trip to Utah and Wyoming, he stopped at a bar for a couple of drinks. A few hours later, he was pulled over and charged with driving under the influence. Although he was released from jail two days later, when he went back to the house in hiding where Warren’s wives resided, a stranger answered the door. His own wife and child were also missing. Frantically he put in a call to his father and to Lyle Jeffs and was coldly told to go home to Short Creek and repent from afar. He quickly discovered that not only had his wife and new baby boy been taken from him, but the bishop of Short Creek had already placed them with another man.
Wendell was not allowed to see them or know their location. All he knew was that his wife had been instructed to burn all photos and letters from him and to treat him as if he were dead. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized just how thoroughly he had been used and manipulated. All he had ever wanted was to bring honor and salvation to his family. He was heartbroken. As I looked at my brother-in-law, I wondered if Warren’s power to destroy families would ever end. Unfortunately, it was just the beginning.
CHAPTER 20
Purgatory for a Prophet
On August 29, 2006, I was taking a lunch break with colleagues from a real estate class when I received a call from Sheriff Doran. Quickly I excused myself to step outside.
“Becky, did you see the news? Warren Jeffs was caught last night outside of Las Vegas!”
I sat down in shock. Warren had been on the run for so long, I hadn’t been sure this day would ever come. Doran told me that the Nevada Highway Patrol had pulled over a brand-new red Cadillac Escalade with paper license plates during a routine traffic stop. Warren’s brother Isaac was driving, Warren was in the passenger seat, and Naomi Jeffs was in the back. The trooper did not recognize Warren but got the feeling something was wrong, because Warren was nervously shoveling his salad into his mouth and wouldn’t make eye contact. Most conspicuously, the carotid artery in his neck was pumping like crazy. The trooper separated Isaac from Warren, and when they each gave him completely different stories, he called for immediate backup. From there, the officers began a thorough search of the car.
“First of all,” Doran told me, “that red Escalade was a new model 2007, worth at least $55,000, and had been paid for in cash. Second of all, they found at least $54,000 in bills in the vehicle, and more envelopes with more letters and cash from his followers. There was also a police scanner, fifteen cell phones plus walkie-talkies, laptop computers, credit cards, and keys to several other luxury vehicles with them. They had wigs and sunglasses and all kinds of accessories to keep them unrecognizable.” The list went on and on. Just as when Seth had been pulled over, there were multiple bundles of sealed letters to Warren pleading for his prayers for their family memb
ers.
It made sense to me that the people were corresponding with their Prophet while he was on the run. They still needed to show their loyalty, and they hoped their heartfelt pleadings to God would be heard through their Prophet.
“Becky,” he added soberly, “Warren had slit the envelopes open only far enough to get the cash out. He hadn’t read a single one.”
I bit back the bile creeping up my throat. One part of me wanted to scream for joy that Warren had been caught, but a tear slipped down my cheek in frustration for all of the pleadings Warren couldn’t be bothered to read.
I thanked the sheriff and sat for a moment, thinking. Perhaps now, the people would see Warren for what he really was. I prayed that this would be the crack in the foundation that would send his whole charade crumbling down on him and free the people I still loved. I let Ben know, and then I called Wendell.
“Remember how you said that Warren told you God will sweep the wicked off North America before He allows him to get caught?” I asked him.
“Yeah,” he said, “why?”
“He’s been caught.”
“Are you serious?” Wendell began to laugh, almost uncontrollably. He’d been out only for a few months, and it was sometimes still hard for him to believe that Warren’s words weren’t the true and holy revelations as he’d always been told.
The sheriff reported to me later that ten sets of keys to other luxury vehicles had been found in the car, including a brand-new Porsche, a Cayenne luxury sports SUV valued at more than $100,000, and other European luxury cars, worth almost a million dollars total.
When Doran told me Isaac and Naomi were released without charges, I felt momentarily grateful. Then it hit me: they had known damn well that our people were going without food so the Prophet would be safe! Their hands were far from clean.
A few weeks later, Warren was extradited from Nevada to the appropriately named Purgatory Correctional Facility in Utah. At the end of the month, I was celebrating my birthday at a Realtor golf tournament when I received a surprise call from my mother, whom I hadn’t heard from since the day after Fred’s funeral.
“Well, hello, Mom! To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Oh, I just called to check on you,” she responded vaguely. “Happy birthday!”
“It’s Kyle’s birthday, too,” I said, a little irritated. Had she so quickly forgotten her grandson?
“Oh!” she fumbled. “I’m calling to wish him a happy birthday, too, of course.” There was a nervous silence, and I could tell something was wrong. Someone was putting her up to this, and probably listening in from another line.
“You know there is still an outstanding missing person report on the girls,” she said finally, her voice shaky. “Why don’t you talk to them?”
I gasped, and my heart soared. My sisters!
“Ally,” I said, when she put her on the line. I let her talk for a bit, just reveling in hearing her voice. Then I said, “Remember that song I used to sing to you? ‘I See the Moon and the Moon Sees Me’? Kyle and I sing that to you every night, knowing we’re looking at the same moon.” I could tell she was grateful, but her voice was filled with tension. Sherrie, on the other hand, sounded scripted and rehearsed. “Sure love ya. Pray for you every day.” I asked them to put Mom back on.
“Okay, Mom, what’s really going on?”
She hesitated for another moment. “Well, honey, we’ve gotten word that someone is threatening the Priesthood with litigation. Someone is pressing charges against Uncle Warren… is it you?”
I wasn’t about to throw Elissa under the bus. In the charges she’d filed with Washington County, prosecutors were using the name “Jane Doe IV” to protect her. The FLDS knew there were several people who could have been pressing similar charges, and the less they knew the better. I had never lied to my mother, though, so I chose my words with care.
“I honestly don’t know who all has charges against Warren,” I said. “It could be a lot of different people. I’m not involved in the lives of all of the people who have left. But I’d like you to think about something for a moment. Take away the names and the faces of the people in power. Just look at the actions. Look at the facts. Can you tell me that forcing any young girl to participate in marriage against her will is inspired? Can you tell me that is of God?”
“Honey, God and the Prophet do right.”
“Mom, there is a reason it is illegal to marry twelve- and thirteen-year-olds.” Silence. “Okay,” I said, switching tracks. “Mom, is truth truth?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, if truth is truth, will it be seen from all angles, then?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you afraid to see truth come out?”
“Honey, you know people don’t understand us.”
“Now, wait a minute. If truth is truth, then it will stand up to scrutiny. Like the scripture in Matthew, ‘By their fruits ye shall know them.’ Look at the fruits, Mom! When Elissa was being forced to marry, did you honestly feel peace within you?” I longed to scream into the phone, When you knew she was being raped and beaten repeatedly, was that sweet fruit to you?
Finally, she responded: “I would rather see all of my children lying in a grave than for any one of them to challenge the Priesthood.”
My blood ran cold. Her programming was so intense that to her this was the ultimate battle between right and wrong, God and man. The church would be right no matter how many lives were ruined. I got off the phone, shaking.
I decided it was healthiest to try to move on with my life as much as possible. But a few weeks later, I got a call from the district attorney’s office in St. George, requesting an interview about Elissa’s case with a deputy DA and a sergeant from Washington County. I was apprehensive when I met them in Boise, but they were respectful and professional.
The police sergeant, Jake Shultz, told me that growing up as a Christian teenager, he loved to play basketball. In order to join different church leagues, he and his equally obsessed basketball buddies had to go to church and Sunday school.
“Mormon, Catholic, Church of the Nazarenes… you name it,” he chuckled. “Every one of them had this attitude on some level: ‘We’re right, and everyone else is wrong and damned.’ We can’t all be wrong and damned, can we?” He made me laugh, which made it easier just to be there.
At first they asked easy questions about being raised in the FLDS, especially my experience as a girl in the community. When they asked if I would share my experience as a married woman in the FLDS, they both took meticulous notes.
“I can only speak for what I have experienced firsthand,” I said carefully. “I don’t believe one person can speak for the entire FLDS population in this regard. There are well more than ten thousand members now. Different women may have different experiences.”
They both nodded, and I proceeded to explain the situations with Rulon. Every time I had tried to tell Ben about my marriage to Rulon, he had gotten so disgusted and angry with me, he’d interrupt with “Eww! Why did you let him do that to you, Beck?” as if I’d had any control over my body or my destiny as Rulon’s wife.
By contrast, both of these men were exceptionally compassionate as I explained why I didn’t like Rulon to touch me, and how Warren threatened my life if I said no to my husband. Finally, I explained how painful intercourse was for me because of my accident, especially because Rulon hadn’t bothered to be gentle. As I proceeded to tell them about him forcing me to perform oral sex, though, I had to break eye contact. “At that time, I hadn’t known that even young people did those kinds of things to each other in consensual sex. All I had ever been taught was that anything even remotely like that was bad, sick, and wrong, and then suddenly the Prophet was physically forcing me to do it.”
It was hard for me to get the words out, and as I looked down, I noticed that Jake’s free hand was clenched into a fist on his lap. He was shaking with rage. I was floored: except for Cole, no man had ever been angry at Rulon
and Warren for what they had done to me!
Before we parted, I had gained an unexpected sense of trust in these two men. I felt like these guys would go to bat for me. What would life have been like in the FLDS if I had known that there were people like this out there? Despite my intense terror and shame, that interview was a paradigm shift. Even beyond my experiences with Sheriff Doran, I began to trust the process and what it would take to help others, especially my sisters.
Returning home, I focused on my work and family again. Ben seemed to respect me more as I began doing well in my new field, developing relationships with lenders and clients and learning the ropes quickly. Real estate in 2006 was booming, and everyone was looking for agents. But ethics and values were constantly challenged in that industry. I had interviewed with one broker who told me, “With your looks we’ll make a lot of money.” This seemed to parallel what I’d experienced in the church, and I stayed far away from him and his brokerage. Instead I found a firm that cared about me for who I was and the work I could perform. It was greatly empowering.
CHAPTER 21
The Witnesses Wore Red
In October 2006, Elissa’s attorney, Roger Hoole, released some additional information to the public about Elissa’s case against Warren. Her name was being protectively guarded, as prosecutors feared that intense pressure would be exerted not only on Elissa but on our remaining sisters, mother, and father, still active in the FLDS. It didn’t seem to matter that Warren was behind bars—he was able to wreak the same havoc among the people. FLDS leaders—including the remaining members of the First Presidency and Warren’s henchmen—were following his orders as if he were a free man. They all believed he would be soon.
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