The Witness Wore Red: The 19th Wife Who Brought Polygamous Cult Leaders to Justice

by Musser, Rebecca

In the Prophet’s home, I was becoming much closer with my sister-wives. I discovered there was a strict if unofficial pecking order that I’d only had a glimpse of before I married into the Jeffs family: a hierarchy among the older wives, who had borne Rulon children, and a hierarchy among the younger wives as well.

  Ora had been the first of Rulon’s newer, younger wives. She had enjoyed only several months with him before he married again. Naomi, however, had enjoyed over a year as the Prophet’s newest darling before he married Mary Fischer and Marjorie Fischer. That had seemed unfair to the others, especially since Rulon seemed to want Naomi by his side wherever he went. I soon discovered there was much more to it than her sweet manners.

  When Mother Ruth had to be moved to the bottom level because climbing stairs had become too strenuous, Naomi was moved into her old room across the hall from Rulon—to the chagrin of several wives, particularly Mother Ora. But in the Prophet’s household, wives were not allowed to have disagreements, so animosity manifested itself in unusual ways.

  Earlier that year, before I had joined the Jeffs household, Ora had designed and sewn two matching dresses. They were quite stylish and daring for our people, with low-waisted bodices that looked like jackets over short (three inches below the knee!) green pleated skirts. Ora had presented one as a gift to our sister-wife Cecilia, whom I adored. Cecilia, also a newer and younger wife, was thrilled. She was lean but had womanly curves and often couldn’t quite fit in the dress.

  “Just ’cause you can button it up,” Cecilia had said, winking at me, “doesn’t mean you should wear it. I can only wear it on a skinny, skinny day!” Recently she had given it away to stick-thin Naomi, and Ora had come unglued.

  “If you’re not going to wear it, give it back!” she spat. Cecilia had been horrified, her tender heart never meaning to offend. She quickly realized the rivalry between Ora and Naomi, and her story had been a friendly warning for me to tread lightly.

  All in all, the wives got along amazingly well, bonded together in their strong desire to please the Prophet and be an example to the community. I had come to realize that Rulon was not always easy to satisfy, with his superstrict schedules and high expectations. On a deeper level, Rulon had never gotten over the loss of his first wife. At the urging of his young wives, he would tell us about Zola, the daughter of a high-ranking official in the Mormon Church.

  “I remember walking her up the stairs when I took her home the first time,” Rulon would relate. “When she turned to say good night, I gave her a peck, and ran down the stairs, knocking over a garbage can on the way out!” We’d laugh and laugh, but we couldn’t help but notice the longing look in his eyes. His face and his voice never reflected such yearning in speaking about his other wives, even Mother Marilyn, Warren’s mother. Zola and her father had a strong testimony of the mainstream Mormon Church, which had shunned polygamy and extremism. She divorced him, refusing to join Rulon in the Work. He never saw his first wife again.

  One Saturday afternoon when work meeting had ended and it had finally grown quiet on the Prophet’s estate, Naomi asked me to go for a walk. Young, with strawberry-blonde hair and lovely features, Naomi was also rail thin, probably only ninety-eight pounds in her layers of clothes. I knew little about her, except that in the Jeffs hierarchy of wives, Naomi was definitely near the very top.

  “I don’t know why Uncle Rulon favors me,” Naomi said, as we made laps around the property. Her voice was very sweet, but her eyes told a different story. I had seen that she was passive-aggressive, not letting anyone tread on her territory as a favored wife. Naomi shared some stories from her point of view, and like Cecilia, I began to realize there were more undercurrents of jealousy than I had thought.

  “One time Mother Julia came to me, after Uncle Rulon and I had only been married for a few months,” explained Naomi, sounding innocent. “She asked me, ‘What do you do with Father, specifically?’ I said, ‘Well, I just do whatever he wants me to.’ But Mother Julia insisted, ‘I need to know exactly, because I want to keep him alive and happy.’ So… I told her exactly what I did… and guess what? She got kind of mad at me! ‘You do that?’ she cried, and I responded ‘Well, he is my husband, Lord, and Master.’ ”

  She looked at me, waiting for me to respond, but I couldn’t meet her eyes. I did not want to know the specifics. I suddenly understood the term “sugar wife” and realized what Naomi was. She did whatever it took to please Rulon in the bedroom. I shivered, also realizing that I had no desire to earn that title with the Prophet, not after what I had already experienced.

  “Mother Julia may have been mad at me that day,” Naomi continued, “but later on, she came back and confided something in me.” Her voice got really low, and she glanced to make sure we couldn’t be overheard. “You know that she only had two children with Rulon?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, Mother Julia said, ‘Do not ever, ever tell Father no. I did once, and he has never come to me again!’ ”

  I was shocked. How could he withhold his affections, as well as the prospect of more children, from someone like Mother Julia, who adored him and their children, just because she had said no just once? It was simply cruel.

  Naomi shrugged it off, saying that she would never tell the Prophet no. As we made another lap around the yard, I began to realize that Naomi had come with an agenda for our walk. Her first goal seemed to have been sorting out what kind of competition I was in the bedroom. Now that she realized I was not in the running for Rulon’s sexual affection, I think she decided to take me on as a pet project, to teach me to be more satisfying to the Prophet in the bedroom.

  That was confusing to me, but I guessed that by making the Prophet happier, she would maintain her spot on the top rung. If she could train me to do things Rulon wanted, he would be pleased, and her influence inside and outside the bedroom would be magnified. Not just one of many wives, Naomi seemed determined to have influence even when she was off duty. I was not happy about where this conversation was going, but Naomi persisted.

  “You know how very important it is to please Father!” she began. “We must do everything we can to make sure he stays virile and healthy!” Her tone was instructional at first but became slower and more sensual. “Now, he really likes you to rub his chest. Fondle his nipples. Then make your way down his tummy, and slowly move in. He likes you to stroke…” I blocked out the rest of what she said. I hated the feel of Rulon’s hands on me; I hated when he shoved his tongue down my throat, or tried to stuff himself inside me. I couldn’t imagine doing what she was describing. Though my mind was far away, I got the gist of it: I was supposed to be more aggressive in bed, though I was admonished not to be too aggressive, as that was also frowned upon.

  What I was not prepared for, however, was to discover shortly afterward that it wasn’t only Rulon’s edicts to me in the bedroom I was going to have to handle. Just as Naomi wanted to nose her way into our intimate relationship, so did Rulon’s son Warren.

  CHAPTER 8

  Destroyed in the Flesh

  As my principal, Warren expected me to check in like a wife would do to her husband. I still had no desire to waste hours of my time in his hallway. Anytime I didn’t want to be obedient to him, Warren noticed and made it difficult to enjoy my work. I felt suffocated by his double standards for men and women, and for his personal behavior and what he expected of his pupils. When he went on a rampage expelling students and getting after some of my brothers again, I wanted to yell, You hypocrite!

  In public, I put on a brave face, but Mother Paula saw right through me. She took me for a walk one afternoon, enjoying a warm rock by the edge of the water near the irrigation pond. There I confided in her more than I ever had to anyone, opening up to her about my struggles with Warren.

  “Uncle Warren is not your husband, Becky. He cannot dictate what you do unless you allow it.”

  I stared at her. No one had ever said anything even remotely like that concerning Warren. I had been taught to obey
him without question. She planted the seed that it was literally my choice if I came back that fall or the next to teach at Alta Academy. While my heart hurt to think about leaving my students, I suddenly felt an enormous sense of relief. To be free and away from Warren sounded more delicious than anything I could imagine. But I didn’t know if I had the courage to go through with it. Somehow I felt constantly under Warren’s thumb.

  I helped Christine choreograph the operetta, our yearly music and dance performance that the chorus class did each spring for the community. I went through the motions and did what I could, though I felt like a zombie on autopilot. I had realized that if I left teaching at Alta, I would have very little reason to go on. Sure, I would be free from Warren, but I would also be away from anything else that gave my life meaning. That evening I was leaving the grocery store when I ran into my beloved aunt Martha, who had moved with her family to Colorado City when the Prophet had entrusted a new calling in the church to Uncle Jim. I greeted her enthusiastically. How I had missed her!

  After hugging me, my aunt stepped back and looked at my face. Unlike anyone except Paula, she saw past my smiles to the dark circles under my eyes and the pain behind them.

  “What is happening with you, Becky?” she asked. In that moment I knew I could trust her. I took a breath and laid my soul bare, confessing to my aunt all of my pent-up sadness and the fact that I was just another body in Rulon Jeffs’s home.

  Aunt Martha listened to me sympathetically, then looked directly into my eyes.

  “You need to get involved in the community. Find somewhere where you belong, Becky, or it will kill you. You’re so very young, with a whole life to live. You must find a place where you are needed, and you need to give and serve until you forget yourself.”

  I went home that night and crawled into bed, curling up into a fetal position. I knew she was right, but where could I give of myself that it would make a difference? Where could I be so needed as to forget my worries? And where Warren couldn’t crush me?

  The next day I arrived early to the operetta rehearsals. Christine was just as creative and energetic as ever. After a little while, I noticed several points at which things were not operating efficiently, or where the teens and children felt a bit confused in the production. I threw myself into the day and directed the participants without encroaching on Christine’s toes. Before the day was over, I could tell my help was making a real difference.

  That night, I again climbed into my bed exhausted, but with excitement in my bones. I might be powerless to change Warren’s mind about the worthiness of my own brothers, but there were young people in need of help right where I was. One of them, Samantha, came to talk to me afterward about struggles she was facing in the community and her family. We talked for a long time and became fast friends.

  At the next practice, I watched carefully. Many of these kids were just numbers in their households, too, and several of them sat very low on the hierarchal totem pole in our society. When we praised them for a job well done, I saw them shine with a new light. I could validate them, and most important, I could love them.

  Three hundred fifteen miles away from Salt Lake City, I had found my home.

  I kept flying back and forth between Short Creek and Salt Lake City, to stay involved with the practices but teach school during the week. Our first performance of the operetta In Grand Old Switzerland was a monumental success. As usual, the entire community came out, and they enjoyed the fresh spin that Christine and I had put on it, especially with the dancing we’d added to the production. What gave me the most pleasure was not the delighted applause from the audience, but the radiant smiles of the cast. I was hooked.

  That summer of 1996, Christine and I choreographed our first dance of young daughters of the community for the 24th of July Pioneer Day Celebration. Costumed in sweet white dresses with blue-and-white-checkered cummerbunds, straw hats, and sunflowers, the performers were a sensation, and Rulon was charmed by the singing and dancing. I loved connecting with the ladies and showing my husband that I was using my talents to please him.

  There was another place I was obligated to please my husband, but I was not “living up to my duties.” That very summer, Warren Jeffs put me in my place. One afternoon, he summoned me to his Hildale office to say, “Mother Becky, it has come to my attention that you do not always do your duty. You must get close to Father.”

  My heart fell. Getting “close” with my husband was Warren’s way of talking about marital relations, specifically sex. He was damn right I was not getting close with his father! I had even told Rulon about my childhood accident with the rusty bike, because when he would get on top of me in the night, his fingers and his manhood were excruciatingly painful every time. It had been hard for me to be that open and vulnerable, but he had acted so kind at first that I thought he would understand. Before long, though, he seemed even more determined to get his way, ignoring my tears of pain, anguish, and humiliation.

  When I could not devise a Priesthood-approved way of avoiding my shift, I had deciphered an ingenious way to please the Prophet while ensuring he did not touch me. Each night on duty, I would massage his sore and troubled feet until he fell asleep. Deep inside, I knew I was being manipulative in order not to be used for his pleasure. It had worked for a while, but apparently my husband was not pleased with my progress in being a “comfort wife,” the term the Prophet used to describe one who would submit to all of her husband’s “earthly” demands in bed.

  Warren must have seen something in my eyes, for he said, more firmly this time, “You will get close to your husband. You must foster a serving relationship with him. If you have a problem with that, talk to him.”

  When I left Warren’s office, I slipped back into the black mood that had threatened to take me before. At one time I had felt that it was God’s will that I be with Rulon. Over time it became disturbingly clear that marriages were not divinely orchestrated “by God’s will to the Prophet’s mouth”—as reinforced by scripture and Warren’s lectures and tapes—but instead decided over dinner conversations by sister-wives and power-hungry fathers.

  On multiple occasions my sister-wives would take delight in going in to the mouthpiece of God to say, “Don’t you think that this particular man and woman would make a cute couple?” Almost immediately, the match would take place.

  In addition, many of my sister-wives had beautiful little sisters. Whether it was their idea or not, I observed fathers coming to bargain with the Prophet concerning their younger daughters.

  When one such deal was struck, a father came in for his daughter’s wedding luncheon proudly displaying two sixteen-year-old daughters, one on each arm, like a man coming to market with his finest goods. They were not twins, but from different mothers. The bride’s face shone with great hope and excitement, ready to be validated and take her place of honor beside the Prophet. In complete contradiction to what was being spouted at the pulpit and in Warren’s classrooms, however, the Prophet peered appraisingly at both girls.

  “Which one is mine?” he asked.

  The father looked at him eagerly. “Either one, or both!”

  Rulon had a great laugh over that, but at that moment, I flushed in silent anger, watching the face of Rulon’s new bride crumple. God had failed to send the beam of light directly to the Prophet, and he didn’t even know which bride was his, despite her sacrifices and preparations for this great day. As the more submissive and obedient of the two, she became Rulon’s bride while her sister was given to Rulon’s grandson.

  “Guess who wants to marry me now?” gloated Rulon one night at dinner not long after. Warren, a frequent guest at our table, was present.

  “Who?” asked Warren.

  Rulon mentioned a young girl whose father had come to visit him that day. Warren sniggered, and it wasn’t lost on Rulon.

  “Of course I won’t marry her. She’s a fat ass.” Anyone who was not rail thin was often spoken of by the Jeffs men as a “fat ass” or “fat
slob,” making me and several of my sister wives self-conscious and self-critical. Worse, I watched more fathers frequent the Prophet’s office and his table, desiring validation and standing in the community so much that they would put their daughters up on the auction block. Their biggest coup was when the Prophet would agree to take a daughter as his own wife.

  Over the next seven years, Rulon would take on forty-six wives after me.

  When I got married, I could not shake the feeling I had abandoned my siblings, despite it not being my choice. I kept an eye on them at school whenever possible, but disturbing reports came in of my younger siblings, especially the boys, struggling at home. As the Prophet’s wives, Christine and I couldn’t display any tolerance for rebellious behaviors, but whenever we had the opportunity to take the kids quietly aside, we tried to validate their good behaviors and beg them to get on the right track at school and home.

  A definite rise in rebellious behavior had coincided with the arrival of my father’s coveted third wife. We’d all been surprised to learn that our cousin Maggie, who was close to my age, would now be “Mother Maggie.” The kids at home had been excited, and they tried to be good for the new wife. It became quickly apparent that any happiness would not last.

  Mother Maggie had come from a very authoritarian home. My mother told me that Mother Maggie insisted that my father physically create order in the household. With an insane desire to please his new wife, he beat his children into submission. Mom was in mental anguish. When Irene had beaten us, our mother had looked to her husband for safety. Having him become the abuser just to please another wife broke her.

  Irene sought out Maggie’s sympathies, and the two combined forces against my mother. Maggie quickly showed herself to be resentful and manipulative toward my younger siblings, particularly Amelia. With Christine, Savannah, Brittany, and me all out of the house, the others were forced to fend for themselves.