“Are you scared?” he whispered back.
“No . . .” I lied, but my trembling body betrayed me.
“What’s wrong, Mom? I can tell you’re scared to death.”
Having endured that fright of my life, I realized it was just a false alarm.
My mind was heavy with thoughts as I fed breakfast to the kids crowded around the table. Later, I sent fourteen-year-old Kaylen outside to clean the yard. The memory of the voice weighed heavily on my heart. Throughout the day, in the midst of doing housework and caring for needy babies, I heard a voice in my head again: “Take your kids and leave immediately.” I thought it was unfair that I was being asked to leave when there was no way I could possibly comply. I had no phone, no electricity, and no husband home who could help me. Verlan was lying low in Nicaragua, hiding from Ervil. Not a day went by that I didn’t cry and pray that he would be protected by God. I hid my fears as I fulfilled my duties as a mother. I stood outside in the wind, hanging wet clothes. Then when they were dry, I gathered them in my arms and took them back into the house. I fed the brood boiled pinto beans and dry whole wheat bread and asked them to settle in their beds early. I was too beat to deal with the noise and confusion any longer.
Usually I zonked out when my head hit the pillow, but this night my mind ran to and fro and refused to settle. I didn’t know if I was in imminent danger, or if my own fears had prompted the warning.
Desperately desiring to know what I should do, I pondered silently in the darkness. To my surprise, the voice spoke emphatically again: “Take your kids and leave.”
I finally gave in to the tears of desperation, letting them fall unimpeded onto the pillow I embraced. I cried out to heaven for answers. Where was my husband? Where could I possibly hide with all my children? The antics of the whole LeBaron clan had severed the bonds between my former friends and family. The mere thought of going to the States, into a foreign environment, paralyzed me. I had no job skills, only a ninth-grade education and zero self-esteem. I had been an outcast among the Mormons as a child. Now I was one among my polygamous family.
Signing up for welfare was an absolute no-no. Fear of discovery had been well ingrained into my belief system. I’d been warned that I’d cause repercussions, possibly arrests, if I accepted money from the government. I’d been disowned by my own parents for marrying Verlan without their knowledge. Two of my brothers were living polygamy, which made it almost impossible for them to support their large numbers of wives and children. I knew there was no way that I could look to either of them for help.
Though my eyes felt heavy and my head ached from lack of sleep, I got out of bed early the next morning. I knew in my heart that I must find a way to leave Los Molinos that day. I thought about the Big Brown House in Ensenada that we had vacated when we moved to Los Molinos. If someone would drive me and my children the two and a half hours it took to get there, I thought I could survive in that house. As a further incentive, I recalled that the house had electricity and running water, which was a plus. With that thought in mind, I decided to go.
I left twelve-year-old Barbara to look after the kids, making sure they ate breakfast and did the dishes. Usually four or five young men in their late teens or early twenties drove the five hours to the Los Molinos colony on weekends from San Diego. It was pretty routine, because the weekends were the only opportunity they had to court their girlfriends. I recognized three new trucks parked beside the meeting house. Several young men were gathered in twos, trying to enjoy every moment possible with their girlfriends before they had to return to the States to work. Two were my nephews. I pleaded with both of them, plus another friend who joined in the conversation, to allow my children and me to ride to Ensenada. All agreed, but they said they couldn’t wait long after the Sunday church meeting because they were going to leave immediately so they could travel together.
I ran home and started shouting orders. The four older girls tore the blankets from the beds and folded them. Two others removed clothes from the closets, hangers and all. We tied them tightly in an old sheet. We filled both my metal washtubs with dishes, pots and pans, and kitchen utensils. The kids were excited about this new adventure. They all cooperated, carrying the tubs of heavy dishes, bedding, two old suitcases, and my only good dresser outside. We hauled out two mattresses as well, and I grabbed some rope to use for securing the mattresses on the trucks.
Before I was completely ready, the meeting was over and three vehicles backed into my yard. The young teenagers loaded my meager belongings into the trucks, tying the load down tight. I counted the kids, making sure they were all accounted for and crowded in beside their cousins.
I kept with me my two smallest boys, two-year-old Lothair and four-year-old Seth, and we sat beside one of my nephews in his truck as we followed the other two in a caravan toward Ensenada.
The unheated house—cold, dusty, and uninviting—would be my temporary refuge. Everybody pitched in to unload the trucks. Noise from the boisterous kids rang throughout the empty rooms. We placed the two mattresses on the cement floor in separate bedrooms, then unfolded sheets and blankets and made up the beds. One of my nephews was kind enough to hook up my butane tank so I could start cooking for the kids. When the necessary tasks were completed, several of the older kids ran to the neighbors to see their former friends.
I had lived in that house before, sharing it with Verlan’s two other wives, Charlotte and Lucy. Now, alone with my own children, it seemed more spacious than ever.
To my amazement, my insecurities found me longing for another wife for comfort and protection. I was so unprepared to live on my own. There was no one to fall back on in case of an emergency. My meager and sporadic budget of twenty to fifty dollars a week did no more than supply us with beans, rice, and homemade whole wheat bread. Cracked wheat, boiled, then mixed with a can of Carnation milk and a small amount of sugar was the main staple for breakfast.
My oldest child, nineteen-year-old Donna, had abandoned the cult the previous year. When word reached her of my move to Ensenada, she drove down from Los Angeles to see me. Insisting that I allow her to spend her own money, she set to work, trying to turn my bare house into a home. We measured the windows for curtains in the living room and my bedroom and then drove to town in Donna’s car, which was a blessing in itself. She bought several throw rugs to help cover the cold cement floors. But the biggest surprise was the roll of linoleum we managed to cram into the backseat of the car, the upper portion jutting out through the open window. We unrolled and laid it on the kitchen floor with excitement. It looked beautiful and was warmer to walk on than the existing cement floors.
I had just started sewing the lacy material into curtains when Donna insisted that I accompany her to a nearby tree lot, where, to my great surprise and delight, she bought me a tall live spruce for Christmas. Her four younger sisters—Barbara, Margaret, Sandra, and Connie—had the privilege of selecting Christmas ornaments to adorn the tree.
Back at home, the children all experienced the excitement and joy of celebrating Christmas while decorating the tree. After buying peanuts, candies, and other goodies, Donna returned to the States to spend Christmas with her boyfriend, Marshall.
The following week, Douglas Fessler, a friend from Los Angeles, picked up Laura (Charlotte’s daughter) and my son Steven in San Diego, and they dropped by my house in Ensenada. I’d met Doug a few months earlier while visiting Donna. He was headed down to Los Molinos to visit for the weekend. Curiosity and a sense of adventure had encouraged him to become familiar with Donna’s half sisters. He hoped to begin a relationship with one of them, sparing her from the impending fate of polygamy.
Doug asked me if my sixteen-year-old son, Steven, could accompany them to the colony instead of spending the weekend with me. I could see that Steven was excited at the opportunity to return to see his half brothers and sisters again, so I let him go.
That night fog settled around the house, restricting my view. I couldn’t even see
the tall winery that stood kitty-corner across the gravel road from our house. The cold December air sent chills through my body. As was customary, I dressed all the smaller children in heavy sweaters in preparation for bed. Having no heat at all in the house, we had to fight the cold, which I resented. I slept in my jeans and long-sleeved blouse to keep warm.
At three in the morning, my toddler Lothair cried out for a bottle. His insistence drove me into the kitchen but I didn’t turn on the light because I feared being seen by someone who might have been stalking me.
The light from the kitchen stove was sufficient, so I warmed up the sweetened cinnamon tea and then filled the plastic baby bottle. Catching a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye, I parted the kitchen curtains. Two Mexican police cars were parked smack in front of the entrance into my yard. Their motors were turned off. I peeked just long enough to wonder what they were doing at this time of night. They seemed to be simply waiting in the darkness.
A strange foreboding came over me when I snuggled beside my son, listening to him suck on his bottle, as I tried to warm one of his legs that had become cold when he kicked off the covers as he slept.
I awoke early and lit the oven in the kitchen, leaving the door open so heat could escape and warm the room while the older kids dressed the younger ones. Through my open curtains, I saw my Mexican neighbor who lived behind me. He was on his way home from his night shift at the winery. I ran outside, waving as I called to him, “Rodolfo! Rodolfo!”
He approached me, but was not smiling as he usually did. “¿Que pasa?” I asked him.
Concerned, he confided in me. “Irene, last night two police cars were parked by your home. On my way to work I walked over by them to inquire if everything was okay. The officer said, ‘Yes, we’re just sitting here protecting the woman in the house.’ ‘Why?’ I asked. They responded, ‘Someone is trying to kill her.’ ”
Even though I had suspected it, the reality was too unbelievable to even comprehend. I’d barely moved to Ensenada because of a premonition. No one knew I was here alone except Verlan’s other wives in Los Molinos.
“There must be some mistake,” I sputtered, trying to sound trivial.
Rodolfo spoke gravely. “I’m worried about you. If you need me for anything, send one of the kids over and I’ll come immediately.”
A half hour later, my oldest son, Andre, drove into my yard, bringing his car to a screeching halt. He and my longtime friend Juna (pronounced Janae) Wakeham jumped out of the vehicle and ran inside to meet me as I opened the living room door. Juna was white with fear. “He’s done it, Irene! Ervil attacked Los Molinos! We don’t know all the details.”
Andre cut in, “Verlan Jr. phoned the Ensenada police when he got wind of the raid. They were supposed to come out here to protect you last night. Did they?”
“Yes, I guess that’s what they were up to.” I fired questions repeatedly, trying to get more details. I needed to know whether Steven had been hurt.
Juna spoke up disappointedly. “No one knows anything yet. Let’s go to the police station and see if they can tell us what happened. I heard a dozen or so people were shot and two are dead. But I’m not sure that’s accurate.”
I burst out crying, thinking that one of those dead might be Steven. I sent my kids over to Rodolfo’s, got into the car with Andre and Juna, and headed for the police station.
The three of us drove the six miles into downtown Ensenada. I hurried into the police station with Andre and Juna at my heels. Andre spoke Spanish fluently, so he asked the most pertinent questions: Did they know who was dead? Was his brother Steven killed? Were any of the dead Verlan’s wives or children? Was Doug Fessler dead?
But the police chief didn’t know any details. He had been inundated with calls from frenzied reporters from all over the U.S. and Mexico, demanding details of the raid. The overwhelmed officer conveyed what little news he had of the attack. Between his constant phone calls, he tried answering our questions, covering the receiver with one hand.
For a split second, when the calls died down, he pointed to two eight-by-ten black-and-white photos on his desk. My stomach turned when I glanced at the pictures.
“Who are these men?” he probed. “Do you know either of them?”
All three of us sadly admitted that we did. I pointed to the first photo and said, “This is Ervil LeBaron, my brother-in-law.” And then to the second. “The other guy is his bodyguard, Daniel Jordan.”
“Who are you?” he asked, looking me in the eye.
“I’m Irene LeBaron.”
“Oh, my! You’re the woman my buddies were sent out to guard last night. You’d better leave your home immediately. Go somewhere and hide, because we can do nothing more for you.”
The phone rang three times without his answering it. He was determined to finish his sentence first. “You’d better go now,” he warned, finally picking up the receiver. With his free hand, he waved us out of the police headquarters.
On the way home we were too distraught to think straight. We’d received absolutely no information from the authorities, and we didn’t know if any of Verlan’s family was dead or alive. I mentally berated myself over and over, sickened that I had let Steven go to Los Molinos for the weekend. I’d never forgive myself if he was dead.
Among the three of us, we discussed how we could leave and where we might run for safety. We definitely needed another vehicle to transport the numerous children. First we drove toward the Big Brown House. Just as Andre was driving off the highway onto a gravel road, we heard loud, quick blasts from an oncoming vehicle’s horn. I spotted the familiar dark blue former potato chip truck coming from Los Molinos.
“It’s Ray Dambacher!” Andre and Juna yelled in unison.
When Andre pulled over and stopped beside the vehicle, all three of us jumped out. I could see Pat Mackey in the driver’s seat, so I knew something was amiss. He descended from the truck and hurried toward us.
I cried out, sobbing for an answer. “Is Steven dead?”
“No. Steven is a hero. He helped save several houses from burning.”
I felt relieved, but faint from all the stress I had endured the last hour. “Are any of Verlan’s wives or children dead?” I asked.
“No, no. But I’ve got Ray inside the truck on a cot. He was mowed down by a shotgun blast. I’m transporting him to San Diego, where I can get him to the veterans’ hospital.”
I’d known Ray for several years. I climbed into the truck and found Ray delirious and moving in constant pain with tears running down his cheeks. When he felt my hand on his, he blinked. I could tell he had a hard time focusing. Maybe his pain delayed his memory for a moment or two.
“Ray?” I heard my voice crack from sadness. “Are you okay? It’s Irene. Can I help you?” I spoke again. “Ray?” My words finally registered in his ethereal world.
“I’ve been shot.” He grabbed my blouse. “Please don’t leave me.” He tried unsuccessfully to turn back the gray blanket that covered his body. “Help me,” he ordered weakly, trying to lower the blanket again.
I peeled the cover back, but I was not prepared for what I saw. His legs and stomach were completely marked with pellets of buckshot. He reminded me of a dead duck my brother had once brought home. I forced myself not to cry, knowing that if I did, Ray would become more upset. He had too many worries already. Pulling the cover back into place, I gently patted his face. “You’ll be okay. Wait here; we’ll be right back to go with you.”
Pat, Andre, and Juna also saw his condition and sensed the urgency. Leaving Juna to console our wounded friend, Andre and I rushed to our house, which was only about three minutes away.
I loaded five of my youngest children into Andre’s car, grabbed one change of clothes for each child, and then we hurried back to the van. We evacuated the car and the children loaded themselves into the van. I seated all the kids on the floor on a blanket, next to the cot, and I kept vigil at Ray’s head, my hand in his for comfort.
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br /> Juna and Andre returned to the house to pick up Kaylen, Barbara, Margaret, and Sandra. The kids had barely had enough time to gather a few belongings, which they put in the trunk of Andre’s red car. He and Juna sped to catch up to us, just as we were leaving Ensenada, ready to hit the main highway to San Diego.
My soothing words calmed Ray’s delirium, but the two and a half hours to San Diego, watching him suffer, seemed like a lifetime.
Not wanting to be detained at the border, we gave the least possible amount of information. We declared our citizenship. When Ray didn’t answer, I spoke for him. “He’s very sick. We are on our way to the hospital.”
“What’s wrong? Does he have stomach problems?”
“Something like that,” I responded. “I understand lots of people return with Montezuma’s revenge.” With that answer, he waved us through to the good ol’ USA.
With a few instructions from Ray, we finally found the veterans’ hospital, pulling up to the emergency annex. I ran in, demanding a stretcher. Minutes later, Ray was under a doctor’s care. I was heartsick to leave him alone, but I had to take all my children to Juna’s. She had offered us refuge until we could figure something else out. The fear in Ray’s eyes when I left him still haunts me today.
Ray recovered with time. His near death experience did not cause him to lose hope in his newly found faith.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Little by little we pieced together the details of the raid on Los Molinos.
Ervil’s paranoia had escalated. In his most recent delusional revelation, God had spoken emphatically to him concerning his brother Verlan. Ervil confided in one of his followers that he’d been told to “kill the son of a bitch!”
Cult Insanity Page 22
