The Road to Jonestown

by Jeff Guinn

  Marceline’s children, already used to both parents’ frequent absences—a full-time housekeeper named Esther prepared meals and kept a watchful eye on the Jones brood—didn’t notice that much difference. “We lived in a bubble, and it was usually good,” Jim Jones Jr. remembers. So far as they knew, the Mom-Dad-Carolyn combination was still in effect. If for a time they were seeing their mother less, she was still a strong presence in their lives. But Marceline was using the space she’d created away from Redwood Valley to look at the possibility of a future for herself and her children without him. She remained an attractive woman, intelligent and capable in her own right. Jim Jones boasted to his male Temple friends of his sexual magnetism, how women found him irresistible. He forgot that Marceline had her own appeal. Then came a reminder.

  Sometime after the birth of John Victor Stoen, Marceline Jones returned to her home near the Temple church in Redwood Valley and informed her husband that she was leaving him. She had fallen in love with a psychologist she’d met through her work for the state. Marceline planned to divorce Jones, marry the new man in her life, who lived in Fort Benning, Georgia, and take the children with her.

  Perhaps she hoped that Jones would beg her to stay, or at least admit that his own selfish actions had irreconcilably ruined their marriage. Instead, Jones summoned the children to join him and Marceline immediately in a family meeting. Jones took the offensive, saying, “Mom wants to break up the family.” He declared that she was being selfish, putting her own desires ahead of what was best for everyone. This man, this doctor or whoever he was, wanted to take Mom—and them—to Fort Benning, away from all the things they had in Redwood Valley, the horses and the pets and their friends and all the fun. Revealing his parental sense of chauvinism—Suzanne was a girl, so her opinion didn’t matter—Jones demanded of Lew, Stephan, and Jimmy, “Do you want to go with your mother?” All three said, “We want to stay with you, Dad”—choosing the familiar over the unknown. Jones felt that he’d won. Then Marceline said she would leave, marry the psychologist, and take the children anyway.

  In front of their children, Jones thundered that if Marceline tried to take them, “You will be met by the avengers of death.” Marceline Jones knew her husband well, including how he fabricated demonstrations of superpowers. A threat to summon “avengers of death” might have caused gullible Temple members to quail; she knew better. But then Jones switched to more basic terms: “If you ever take my boys away, you’ll be dead.” He now had armed bodyguards who were fanatical in their worship of him, and undoubtedly willing to kill on his command. Marceline took this threat seriously. She backed down. Jones dismissed the family meeting.

  Marceline resumed her secondary place in the Temple, and, as it expanded, was required to stand in for Jones much more often. Added to the ongoing demands of her state job, there was no time or opportunity left to continue one outside romance, or to pursue another. Stephan said decades later that “I think my Mom did the best that she could do with what she had because it was all that she could do . . . there were a lot of things that kept her there.” Love of her children was foremost, as well as a sense of responsibility to all of Jones’s followers, who she believed were good people, genuinely trying to change the world for the better. But after the family meeting there was also the possibility that Marceline’s own life was at stake. Better than anyone, she understood Jones’s ruthlessness. So she stayed, and it cost her. Jim Jr. recalls, “Of course Mom wasn’t happy after that. More than ever, she became a sad woman.”

  For the Jones sons, life mostly went on as it had before. It was different for Suzanne. A few years earlier, she’d dated Mike Cartmell, the teenage son of Patty Cartmell, and who helped run the Temple youth activities. Cartmell, to Jones’s mind, was the perfect husband for Suzanne. He was the child of perhaps Jones’s ultimate loyalist, he’d demonstrated his own dedication for years, and he was strikingly intelligent, apparently heading for a career in law. At one point Jones told Mike, “I’d love to adopt you, and would, but for Suzanne. Then you couldn’t marry her.” So far as Jones was concerned, Suzanne would marry whomever her father wanted.

  But Suzanne was strong-minded. She dated Cartmell for a while when they both were in high school. He was a senior and she was a freshman, but it was the younger one who broke things off. Cartmell despaired—he was enthralled with Suzanne’s assertive personality and blossoming good looks—but Jones didn’t give up. He spent the next few years constantly telling his daughter about the latest great things Mike Cartmell had done. Jones went so far as to tell Cartmell that he was Jones’s “chosen successor,” making it logical that Cartmell and Suzanne would marry to keep the next generation of Temple leadership entirely within the Jones family. It was a ploy; privately, Jones had already designated that in the event of his death Marceline would lead the church until such time as Stephan was ready to assume the helm. But Jones never let facts interfere with convenient promises. Suzanne relented and began dating Cartmell again. They eventually married in June 1973. Afterward, Cartmell noticed a change in Marceline’s attitude toward him. Previously, she’d been friendly. Now she snapped at him almost every time they were together, finding fault with whatever Cartmell said or did. He complained to Jones, who replied, “Son, you’ve just got Marceline on your ass and I don’t envy you.” For a long time, Cartmell couldn’t figure it out, but finally felt that he understood. Marceline Jones, swept into marriage with the leader of Peoples Temple and then betrayed by him, was furious that Jones had maneuvered their daughter into the same potential fate.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  THE PLANNING COMMISSION

  Though ultimately it was his opinions alone that counted, Jones always maintained the illusion that he led Peoples Temple based at least in part on the counsel of members serving on advisory boards. When the Temple relocated to Redwood Valley, its Board of Elders consisted of loyalists who’d held the same positions back in Indiana. The group was known simply as the Board, chaired by Cleve Swinney. Its membership included one black person, Archie Ijames, and consisted only of men, though women had significant roles within the Temple—Marceline, Carolyn Layton, Patty Cartmell, and Eva Pugh, the organization’s treasurer.

  Soon after the Temple relocation, Board membership was expanded. A few selected newcomers were asked to serve, including Garry Lambrev and Sharon Amos. Amos, a trained psychiatric social worker, caused a sensation during one of her first meetings. Eager to impress Jones, who was also in attendance, Amos said that to prove her gratitude to the Temple and its leader, she would feed her three children only birdseed so that the money she saved on more traditional food could be donated to Temple programs. For once, even Jones was at a loss for words. Jack Beam eventually broke the stunned silence by saying, “That won’t be necessary, sweetheart, but I know Jim sure appreciates your commitment to the cause.”

  Whether making foolish statements or genuinely discussing substantial issues, the Board had no authority. Jones was always present, though he usually listened rather than talked. It was a way for him to get a better sense of the general Temple atmosphere and goings-on.

  Another Temple board had legal authority, but still no influence. California state registration and operating regulations required a board of directors and some record of its meetings. Membership on the formal Board of Directors of the Peoples Temple of the Disciples of Christ was restricted to seven—Jones, Marceline, Tim Stoen, Ijames, Carolyn Layton, Mike Cartmell, and Amos. Every recorded discussion and vote of the seven-member Board of Directors always reflected the will of Jim Jones.

  But Jones wanted some additional system that let him keep better track of and control all the diverse aspects of Temple activity, from the public programs to the closely held trickery that allowed him to perform healings and read minds. The result was a new group called the Planning Commission, soon known as “the P.C.” among Temple membership. Around 1972, it replaced the Board of Elders as Jones’s ostensible internal advisory group. Like its earl
ier iteration, it existed to do Jones’s bidding.

  No one other than Jones understood how P.C. members were selected. The acknowledged Temple leaders were included: Jones wanted both Stoens, Jack and Rheaviana Beam, Carolyn Layton, Terri Buford, and Patty Cartmell on hand. Grace was always present, but Tim Stoen was frequently occupied with other Temple business. The Mertles were P.C. members, and Laura Johnston. Marceline occasionally attended; her husband did not feel a need for her constant presence. But Jones also selected some members whose contributions to the Temple seemed less significant. He viewed the P.C. as his best means of keeping a closer eye on followers whose loyalty he doubted, to impress women he intended to take as lovers, and to reward his most unwavering followers, the ones who would do anything for him.

  From the outset, P.C. members were viewed by everyone else in the Temple as the followers that Father valued most. Some who weren’t selected by him were hurt, and vowed to work for the cause even harder to prove their commitment—just as he knew who it would benefit him to appoint to the P.C., Jones also had a sense of who would work even harder to impress him if they weren’t selected. Initial P.C. membership totaled about fifty. The number eventually grew to more than one hundred. Where the earlier, smaller Board of Elders had routinely met in members’ homes, the P.C. was too large for that, so its meetings were often held at the Temple offices in Redwood Valley, with everyone crammed into a workspace above the Temple laundry. Other meetings took place in the Temple church, before or after services.

  No matter where they occurred, P.C. meetings were multihour marathons. Many of its members had day jobs, but Jones sometimes kept the group working until sunrise. He rarely presided. Jones named Grace Stoen as “head counselor,” and while the P.C. debated new Temple business—consideration of establishing permanent churches in San Francisco and Los Angeles was part of early P.C. agendas—Jones encouraged lengthy expression of opinions, always listening for any hints that someone wasn’t completely committed to whatever he wanted, and constantly watching for gestures or careless words indicating potential disloyalty. No matter how long the meetings dragged on, P.C. members remained engaged, probably from physical discomfort. The lucky ones had chairs; the rest sat on the floor. Bathroom breaks were generally forbidden. Jones himself lounged on a couch that was cushioned with extra pillows. Food was provided; Jones ate a lot, and drank most of the fruit juices and soft drinks that were on hand. During many P.C. meetings, he had an oxygen tank placed by his couch and frequently held a mask to his face for reviving draughts. Jones also relieved himself whenever he wished. Everyone agreed that Father needed to conserve his strength because the burdens on him were so great.

  It was originally understood that the purpose of the Planning Commission was to help develop, then direct, the activities and overall mission of Peoples Temple. But almost immediately the topic of sex was introduced. At one of the first P.C. conclaves, Jones repeated the story of having sex with an ambassador’s wife in exchange for her generous donation to a Brazilian orphanage. When Marceline asked why he wanted to share something so personal, Jones said he wanted everyone in the room to realize how much he trusted them, and also the extent of the sacrifices he made for the cause.

  Marceline asked if she could respond. When Jones granted permission, she told the others that in the past she had been reluctant “to share my husband” for the cause, and that her intransigence forced him to demand a divorce. But she loved and believed in Jim Jones and didn’t want to lose him, “so I agreed that I would share him with people who needed to relate to the cause on a more personal level.” She admitted, “This has been a very difficult thing for me to live with, and it’s caused me a lot of heartaches.” But after listening to her husband in the P.C. meeting, “I realized that I have been very selfish. I want to make a public statement tonight that I am willing to share my husband for the cause, and I won’t resent it any longer.” With that, Marceline left the room.

  As soon as his wife was gone, Jones bragged, “I hope Marcie’s unexpected offer doesn’t cause a lot of you to begin making demands on me. I’m already overworked in this area.”

  Sex became a recurring P.C. meeting topic. Jones described his own carnal activity and challenged members to reveal their own secret desires. As new members were appointed to the P.C., they were soon disabused of their vision of focusing solely on critical Temple business. Hue Fortson remembers, “It was supposed to be an honor to be [appointed]. And at [my] first meeting, everyone was businesslike and cordial. Then at the next meeting, all they talked about was who fucked who.”

  * * *

  Besides discussing legitimate Temple business and fixating on sex, the Planning Commission took on an additional role—meting out discipline.

  “Catharsis meetings” had been part of the Temple tradition from its earliest days. Members who acted inappropriately were called out in front of their peers, confronted with their perceived misdeeds, and offered the opportunity to correct their behavior. It was, initially, a fairly gentle procedure, more of a controlled discussion than a kangaroo court, with Jones admonishing where necessary and eliciting promises to do better. The philosophy was that nobody, with the exception of Jones and Marceline, could be expected to act perfectly at all times. Catharsis meetings, always closed to outsiders, offered Temple members the opportunity to benefit from constructive criticism.

  In Redwood Valley, these were usually held on Wednesday nights. As time passed, the criticism offered took on a harsher tone, mostly from Jones himself. He was under great stress, first from the Temple’s near-disintegration in 1968 and then when it began its explosive growth and the pressures on him increased exponentially. Screaming at an errant member, delivering verbal abuse that touched on character flaws as well as specific slips in behavior, seemed to help. Whitey Freestone, both before and after his family’s horrific car wreck, was a regular target—Whitey was told repeatedly by Jones that he was stupid. Larry Layton was convenient, too. No matter what or how hard he tried, Jones always found some way that Layton had failed the Temple and its leader. Freestone eventually left the Temple, but Layton never did.

  As the Temple grew, the influx of new members included many whose backgrounds included all manner of crimes, from drug dealers to alcoholics, and from street thugs to pedophiles. When relatives of Temple members faced prison time, Jones sometimes personally appealed to judges to release the accused into Temple custody instead. It was the avowed Temple custom to accept all those the rest of society cast out. This was admirable in theory, but risky in practice. New members were supposedly reformed for good thanks to the Temple’s influence, but a certain percentage of backsliding was inevitable.

  Jones preached, and his followers believed, that the U.S. criminal justice system was corrupt, as well as rife with racism. Local police were untrustworthy, too, and undoubtedly eager to have Temple members fall into their clutches. So Jones instituted a rule: “Don’t ever go to the authorities. . . . Don’t call police on a member, [especially] if they’re black. They may spend their lives in jail.” To discourage the kind of activities that would otherwise involve outside authorities—buying or selling drugs, stealing, committing assaults—whenever possible, the Planning Commission doled out private Temple punishment. Sentences were passed by the P.C., always with the approval of Jones. These often involved beatings, sometimes with a board, other times with a rubber hose. The belief was that it was better for the Temple to deal harshly but fairly with its own rather than abandon members to the malignant control of cops and judges.

  Consequences weren’t as severe for lesser transgressions, which usually involved violations of internal Temple strictures. Sneaking to a movie, taking a drink, smoking a joint or even a cigarette, and above all, being disrespectful in any way of Father, were against Temple rules. Violations were reported to the P.C. by other Temple members. If the accused was found guilty by Jones and the committee, the penalty assessed might be a swat or two, or else extra hours of night work, usua
lly unpleasant chores like cleaning toilets or policing Temple grounds.

  To a great extent, the system worked. Temple members seemed, and usually were, law-abiding to the extreme. Their children were exemplary, both in and out of school; when some area parents wouldn’t let their offspring associate with Temple kids, it was because of doubt about the Temple itself. Most locals eventually considered Temple members to be good neighbors, or at least grew accustomed enough to the Temple’s presence to tolerate them. Jones’s followers were embedded in the district attorney’s office, county and town welfare offices, hospitals, care facilities, and almost every other agency and business of consequence.

  Yet by 1972, seven years after he brought Peoples Temple west, Mendocino County and Redwood Valley were no longer sufficient to Jones’s ambitions. There was no more room to grow, not enough jobs and housing to sustain the multitude of additional followers he intended to attract. He had, for the present, no intention of abandoning Redwood Valley as his headquarters, but Jones wanted additional, permanent bases of operations. Though he’d extended his reach deep into the Midwest and Southwest, preaching in the largest metropolises there, Jones had his eye on two California cities. Each, with its very specific cultural identity, offered unique opportunities for Jim Jones and Peoples Temple. He was eager to take full advantage of both.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  LOS ANGELES

  In Los Angeles, the economic and social divide between whites and blacks was as stark as in any major American city. Los Angeles ghettos were desperate places; there, an estimated six in every ten families survived on welfare payments. Impoverished blacks were virtually landlocked into their slums. The city’s vast sprawl—about five hundred square miles—and freeway system, along with limited public transportation in poor areas, made it virtually impossible to get from one place to another without automobiles, which many blacks didn’t own. Ghetto kids couldn’t escape their horrific surroundings with outings to the beach or the green hills outside town. Unemployed adults—in some years, three out of four adult African American men in Los Angeles slums had no jobs—couldn’t look for work in districts where business was booming. Even if they got jobs, commuting could prove insurmountable. Constant discomfort was present even overhead: flight paths for the busy Los Angeles International Airport passed directly over the slum known as Watts. In 1972, most Americans were familiar with that name. The Watts riots of the 1960s still resonated. White Angelenos expected black rioters to come streaming into their genteel residential areas, but in reality, by and large young black males took out their frustration and rage on each other. Los Angeles ghettos were battlegrounds for gangs, teens, and twentysomethings who gave up hope for better lives outside the slums and fought each other instead for control of every blighted block. If beaches and decent schools weren’t readily available to them, drugs and liquor were. Parents despaired for their children, and were desperate for virtually any source of safety for them.