Jim told us that we were all on the enemy’s list. I was afraid. I had come to believe all white people, except the few under Father’s tutelage, were bad. In his sermons, Father constantly warned us of the inevitable American Armageddon, and urged us to break all ties to this vicious right-wing country to save our lives:
The people cannot be really happy until they have been deprived of illusory happiness … You and I have done that … It was our mission to open the minds of those still asleep and drugged by religion … We have done the best we could. I have gathered the finest people left in America. There are no more. Those family members who have refused to join our Cause were given hundreds of chances to come, but they have waited too long. It is time for us to look forward to our new lives. Let no one repeat the sentimentality of Lot’s wife, by turning for one last glance and becoming a pillar of salt. No, my beloved children, in Jonestown we will no longer be hounded like dogs, no longer hear the racist cry of “nigger” as we walk the streets. We have 3,800 acres which has been readied for our arrival. You saw the beautiful movies, the houses, the pathways. Truly, this is our Promised Land. We will be emigrating to a country in South America governed by Black men and Indians. The common language there is English. We will live well in a land which honors and dignifies the lives of its people. No Ku Klux Klaners live there! We will flourish once more, as we did long ago, before the white man harnessed us, whipped our backs and worked us like oxen. We will live as free men and women, no longer chattel, in a country which has offered us a place of our own and to join in their Socialist endeavor. Free at last … Free at Last … Thank Socialism almighty we will be free at last.
So though it haunts me now, I was proud to help Randy’s and Vera’s families obtain their passports, confident I was doing the right thing when I helped them pack, exhilarated when I waved good-bye to them. I never had second thoughts about their leaving this country. I knew that their new life in Jonestown would be better than this. It made sense to me that they should never say good-bye to their abusive families. It seemed logical to leave under the cover of darkness. That’s what one had to do when being monitored by the enemy.
I had now been back from Europe for several weeks and had obediently resumed my work alongside Maria. As I fretted about how I would interact with Teresa on her return, I learned more about finances, and was officially introduced to the appropriate executives at our banks in the financial district.
It was a breezy morning in spring when I was again summoned by Father for an important assignment. I had to blink my eyes several times to adjust to the darkness in Jim’s room.
“Find Tim Stoen,” he ordered. “We must stop him before he joins forces with Grace in order to steal John-John from me, the boy’s rightful father. Thank God the child’s now safe in Jonestown with my son Stephan.” Jim’s voice seemed brittle as if it might crack with tears if he wasn’t careful.
“What a tiny weasel he is,” Jim coughed, trying to clear the emotion from his voice. “He couldn’t sire a son even if he was aided by a team of surgeons. John is my son! Tim is only a father on paper. You’ll find him, he’ll be sure to park his little penis-symbol-Porsche inside the garage, still trying to prove he isn’t a queer. Approach him there and offer him up to ten thousand dollars to stay out of the battle. If he balks, raise the sum by ten thousand more. Don’t forget it was Tim who begged me to have sex with his wife. He thought it would keep her from leaving him. I told him it was a bad idea.” Jim sighed at the painful memory. “Grace chose to keep the child from our union even though I warned her that I would be protective of the child, that I would raise it well and as my own. And now Grace pulls this spoiled child’s charade.” He grabbed his temples and massaged what seemed to be a throbbing ache. “She knew the consequences. When she defected, leaving John-John with me, she did the honorable thing…. And now she is trying to make us suffer? She had her choice. She chose to run away with a man. She chose lust over her son.” His voice became soft and he moaned.
“Dear God in heaven. Maria’s done the best she could. She has tried desperately to be a good mother to my son. Why do Tim and Grace and all the others conspire against me on so many fronts? Why do they try to malign my rightful place in history? What do they fear so desperately? Can’t they see how they’re setting us up? Just like Brother Martin Luther King, the CIA will try to destroy my reputation, then kill me. Do they think I will lie down and allow them to lie about our work and steal my son? How much money are Tim and Grace being paid, I wonder? How much money does it take to pluck a sinner from the cloth of a saint?”
My heart ached for Father as I drove away with a map of possible locations to find Tim. I remembered how much John-John had changed before he had been taken to Jonestown by Tim, in order to keep him from the clutches of an antisocialist mother. It had never occurred to me that his dwindling happiness had anything to do with the loss of his biological mother, who had betrayed us. I only vaguely noticed that he was no longer the joyous little fellow who delighted the congregation when he sat next to Father or when he went to the microphone during service and asked Jim questions. John-John resembled Jim, and Father was terribly proud of him.
Before the attacks upon us had begun, Father often allowed the little children to show their understanding of socialism by having them speak. Crowds of youngsters would rush to the podium, hang from Father’s neck, crawl into his lap. But it was different now that we were under siege. We lived hunkered down in our church bunker in survival mode. There was no place for playfulness anymore.
My mission was fruitless. Tim was not at any of the various spots we had pegged as his hangouts. On my return to Father’s apartment, I expected to be reprimanded, but there was another crisis brewing. Father was on the phone with Carolyn at his side. Rather than interrupt, I wrote a quick note and handed it to them. Father put his hand over the receiver and smiled sadly.
“He’ll resurface. His Porsche will need gasoline soon.”
As it turned out, I would have another chance, soon enough, to deliver my message of lucrative silence to the CIA operative, Tim Stoen.
Soon thereafter, another critical meeting was called. Teresa had just returned from the last leg of our trip, which she had taken alone. She looked pale in the dingy light of the room. I felt self-conscious because I had sat down across the room and did not dare to raise my eyes toward her. Father began to speak.
“There is evidence that the U.S. Customs agents have been tipped off to watch us more closely. The crates we’ve shipped through Miami seem to have been laid over.” He looked around the room for the face with the answer to his following question: “Are they clean?”
“Yes, Father,” came a male voice from behind me. “We stopped the false bottom shipments last month. We had a feeling something was changing down there.”
Jim chuckled. “Oh, you had a premonition, did you?”
The room filled with relieved snickers. I quickly looked up to see if Teresa had smiled. Her head was down; she seemed to be writing a note. She was so dedicated, so good, so smart. I missed being her confidante.
“There is no time for humor now. We are under siege, my children. Luck alone has kept us afloat. Thank God Teresa’s back.”
I smiled to show her my continued support, but she never looked my way. My heart ached as Jim continued.
“I just hung up with our friend, Dennis Banks. He continues to warn me of a conspiracy against us …
“We now have listening devices under every room of the house of the agent who has tried to bribe Dennis Banks just because he accepted money from us. Money—as you all know—for his legal fees in his fight against this government’s effort to extradite him to South Dakota, where they have trumped-up charges against him. Dennis says he was offered assurances that if he denounces me he won’t be extradited. Only the FBI can give those kind of promises. Do you remember when Dennis was here? When I handed him twenty thousand dollars cash? Well, unlike the Tim Stoens of this world, the white pe
ople who defect and betray us, Banks has never forgotten us. Furthermore, he tells me there was a Treasury agent present who is too interested in our business. In fact, Dennis was asked to talk with the agent about us. What’re they up to? We’ll know soon enough, as we continue to listen to their conversations, check their phone bills, and follow them. Perhaps they’re planning to change our status, saying we’re not a church and aren’t legally eligible for our tax-free status … Ha! They’re too late!” Jim smiled … His eyes were brimming with pride as he looked at Teresa and me.
My stomach felt queasy. Everything seemed to be happening so fast. What was going on? Who could be orchestrating this terrible but steady assault on us? I thought about Teresa’s and my trip to Switzerland, my two trips to Panama. Tim Stoen knew about everything. He knew I was a signatory. I wondered if it was Tim who was behind all of this and if he had joined the conspiratorial forces against us … I was afraid. I wished I had found Tim and paid for his silence. I knew that it wasn’t only Jim they were coming after … Now, it would be me, too.
Jim began to talk again.
“What do we have on Kilduff? Get someone in there to find out what he is writing. We cannot fight a mirage. We need concrete information!”
I silently mouthed to Carolyn, “Why does he hate us?”
“My naïve conscript!” Jim had seen me. “Even after all you’ve done for me, you can ask such a question? White men are afraid of my teachings. They will do anything to sully the word of truth. Kilduff is a racist. He complains about my power in the Housing Authority for one reason alone: he doesn’t like it that I am the leader of so many beautiful, devoted, and intelligent niggers. He’s afraid of us—our numbers—that we have the ability to get legal measures passed. He’s afraid of our voting power. He grew up a part of the elite of San Francisco, with private schools and a wet nurse. He’ll do anything to bring us down. He’s a miserable white boy with too much time on his hands. All of them are joining against us. Grace, Tim. They all have betrayed socialism. …”
For several months now the church had been involved in the transport of our loyal members to Guyana. Father wanted everyone out of the country before Kilduff’s ugly stories went to press. He really cared so much. He was safeguarding our futures by trying to get us to safety before our government attacked us. Already over 600 men and women, children, teenagers, and seniors, had been sent to join my husband, Mark, in the Promised Land. I was jealous of them because they were so close to the man I secretly yearned for.
Jim had brought back enticing movies from his last visit there. Everyone looked happy and they wore colorful tropical attire. They didn’t have to work these miserable hours. They slept more than four hours a night. No one had circles under his eyes. So why had Tim left? Why had he sounded so disappointed? All the letters we received from Jonestown spoke only of happiness and relief that finally everyone could live free and safe from the corruption of capitalism.
In order to speed up the departure, Maria and I now had to close various small bank accounts, as well as make sure the monthly income of $65,000 we accrued from the disciples’ Social Security checks would be transferred to Guyana. We transferred money to our main account at the Bank of Montreal in San Francisco from where we could easily move other miscellaneous funds earned through the sale of church property and members’ homes. We also transferred cash with each member leaving for Jonestown. Everybody received at least the legal limit of $5,000 in $100 bills. However, if the travelers were older, loyal, and would likely pass through Customs unchallenged, we gave them as much as $20,000 to put in stockings, purses, brassieres, girdles, backpacks, luggage, and waist belts.
Once in Guyana, the money was collected by either Karen Lay-ton, who had already been there for six months, by Sharon Amos, or by Paula Adams, my old college roommate. At Jim’s direction, Paula had become the mistress of the Guyanese ambassador to the United States, Lawrence E. “Bonny” Mann, which helped us navigate through the Guyanese bureaucracy.
Jim began to get anxious about Paula’s excellent relationship with the ambassador because she seemed to care about him and was spending too much time away from Jim’s aura. But he wouldn’t dare jeopardize the relationship because it would ensure that our money, which was now being deposited in the Guyanese bank, was secure. We’d have word ahead of time if there was going to be trouble. Apart from bank deposits, hundreds of thousands of dollars were packed in crates and shipped on our boat to our compound, 250 miles away from civilization.
I, alone, was now doing the banking business outside the Temple because Jim had become frantic that Maria would be kidnapped. The last year had nearly finished Maria off: She had to care for little John-John, who shared her windowless room, while she toiled into the early morning hours on financial ledgers. Jim’s suffocating fear of the conspiracy against us prohibited them from playing games or having any kind of fun because there was “no time for such luxuries anymore.” And now, on top of all that, she had to deal with the threat of being kidnapped. With all the negative publicity the Peoples Temple was getting, Jim was convinced that Maria’s well-connected father would get suspicious and try to get her out.
She was morose and dangerously thin, drowning in her stress and afraid to confide in Father. I had misread her turmoil as resentment and jealousy of my travel privileges with Teresa.
The weeks progressed and despite Jim’s efforts, we were unable to control the press. As I proofed another of Jim’s rebuttals, which Carolyn had authored, I was impressed with all of Father’s appointments.
MAR ’76 Appointed to the San Francisco Human Rights Commission
SEPT ’76 Testimonial Dinner in Reverend Jones’ honor Guests: Lt. Governor Mervyn Dymally, Assembly Speaker Willie Brown, Mayor George Moscone, District Attorney, Joseph Freitas, Angela Davis, Eldridge Clever, former Black Panther, San Francisco Supervisors, well respected Reverend Cecil Williams and celebrated lawyers Charles Garry and Vincent Hallinan.
OCT ’76 Appointed to San Francisco Housing Authority Commission
NOV ’76 Rev. Jones and Mayor Moscone have a private meeting with Vice Presidential candidate Walter Mondale
JAN ’77 Rev. Jones hosts citywide celebration of Martin Luther King Jr. Birthday & Shares podium with Governor Brown and Chief of President Carter’s Transition Team
FEB ’77 Elected Chairman of the San Francisco Housing Authority Commission
MAR ’77 Rev. Jones and Rosalynn Carter sit together at Head Table of Democratic Convention Dinner
Where was the harm in all this? I believed in the integrity of all those who supported Jim. They were very powerful people and couldn’t possibly embrace someone or a cause they knew nothing about! They knew why they supported Jim. Only opinionated outsiders who could not open their minds to the strife of people less fortunate than themselves had hateful suspicions. They were selfish and their convictions could not be trusted. This was what Jim had always taught us. Since I’d been eighteen and in the college dorms, he had warned us of those nonbelievers who would try to dissuade us from the truth. But these political benefactors who had come to Jim’s aid over and over again had been different. Jim used to say they had a “little something” that was right.
By the third week of June 1977, Father called another all-night meeting with Maria, Carolyn, Teresa, and me.
“This is our last chance,” he said, pulling off his reading glasses and taking a deep, exhausted breath.
“Teresa, darling. You must expand the effort to impede the attempts of Kilduff. We must find out what he has against us. And we must put pressure on his magazine, New West.” He looked at Carolyn and continued.
“Expand the letter writing campaign and the phone calls to the press about his unfair treatment of us. His cavalier attitude can harm all the projects we have set into motion. He obviously has only disdain for all our social efforts, our senior rest homes, the rehab center where we’ve taken hundreds of kids off heroin. He is typical of the egotistical white men who are afr
aid and unwilling to accept the importance of discipline. He has never been loyal nor devoted to a cause greater than himself. He is a consummate honky—opinionated, selfish, and filthy white.” He snarled, his upper lip curled back.
“Do you think he ever scrubbed a toilet or pulled a double-shift in a factory while working his way through college? Hell no! He has never worked. His parents have done everything for him. He’s grown up with maid service. Dear God Almighty …” Jim lifted his fist toward the ceiling. “Just because he graduated from Stanford he thinks he is better than the rest of us. Lord, I’m so tired of fighting the oppressor, so tired of trying to save my babies. When will the harassment cease? Can’t they see they’re forcing us into more and more drastic decisions? Why can’t they give us just a little peace?” He slumped back into his chair.
I followed Teresa upstairs, glad to be working with her once more, relieved that my recent order to “separate my allegiances” had seemingly been rescinded. When I entered her room to receive my list of assignments, Teresa put her hand on my shoulder and joked:
“Okay, my naïve conscript …”
I covered my mouth to stifle an enormous laugh, filled with sorrow and relief.
“So, let’s get to work on our next diversion.”
My first phone call was to Rupert Murdoch, the owner of New West magazine, in New York. I decided to use my upper-class British accent. It always made me sound older and quite credible, like the head mistress at boarding school.
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