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

by Musser, Rebecca

  “Do you think we could call to verify some things?” he asked. We went to the kitchen to call Roger Hoole, who validated what I’d said and gave us contact info for two FBI agents and a U.S. marshal. As it was Easter weekend, the information we had reported was not yet loaded in the system that Kristin was not a typical runaway or a victim of kidnapping, so he had to make further calls. I also called Ben, who let the officer talk to Kristin to verify that she was safe and exactly where she wanted to be. I was grateful to him. On his way out, the officer turned to me.

  “If anyone shows up here,” he said, “you let me know right away.” I knew what he meant: if some of the FLDS boys happened to get here before Ben and Wendell did.

  When they arrived home, I was both dismayed and joyful. It had been so long since I had seen Kristin, and I was astounded at how much she’d grown, but mentally and emotionally she was stunted, afraid to make any move. Over the next several days Kristin never left my presence except to sleep. I was in for a culture shock as much as she was, thinking of where she should have been at her age, preparing for college and a beautiful life—all of that stolen from her.

  As Kristin slowly opened up about her life, I was sobered to hear how quickly things had changed. Before I’d left, Warren had already quashed sports, camping, and entertainment, in addition to music, radio, television, and Internet access (except for businesses). But now, Kristin told me, children couldn’t even play with toys, go outside, or see their friends! They were allowed only to go to school, work, and home, except for church work projects that every child was ordered to participate in on Saturdays, with specific duties to be completed.

  It was painfully clear that education had not improved. After Alta Academy had closed in 1999, a couple of schools remained in Short Creek, but most youth were homeschooled with special FLDS packets. While educators had worked diligently to put these packets together, their own knowledge of the outside world was dangerously limited. Kristin was two weeks shy of eighteen, but I could tell it would take at least another two years of study just to get her GED.

  It had been Kristin’s daily duty to serve meals to the men at Western Precision, an FLDS company with a government contract to make precision parts for the nation’s defense system. This work brought in massive income to certain families and tithes for the FLDS church. Uncle Wendell, who was Warren’s first counselor, loved fine food, and he hosted grandiose gourmet meals to wine and dine contractors as well as the men who worked there. Young, single FLDS women were brought in to cook and serve the meals—and so that the men could see which girls were becoming available. As Kristin described it, as soon as the girls began to develop breasts, they would be picked off, one by one.

  Over the next few days, I showed her pictures of the YFZ in Texas, and the humongous temple rising into the sky.

  “What is that?” she inquired.

  “You don’t know?” I was incredulous. It dawned on me how secret everything in Texas had remained to the “common” people.

  I then showed her pictures of Warren after being caught in his red Cadillac Escalade. She gasped at his shorts and T-shirt, no long underwear in sight.

  “Oh my gosh, he’s got a tan!”

  “Kristin, he told the people he was in hiding, but then he and Naomi bought leather jackets and leather pants and rented Harley-Davidson motorcycles. He and his entourage went to Disney World. The receipts show he spent the people’s tithing on bathing suits and tanning beds and to braid Naomi’s hair. This is why they don’t want you to use the Internet—this is the truth and it’s all over it!”

  Kristin looked into my eyes. “I knew it,” she said softly. “I wouldn’t believe the awful things they said about you… I wouldn’t believe what they said about Ben or Wendell, either. That’s why I called.” I breathed a sigh of relief. Deep down, this girl still had her own intellect and her own voice. It would take some time and struggle, but Kristin was going to be okay.

  My young sister-in-law was still settling in when I received an unexpected call from Sheriff Doran. This time, his friendly drawl sounded very serious.

  “Becky, I want to run something by you. A domestic violence hotline monitored by Texas Child Protective Services got a call a couple of days ago from someone claiming to be a sixteen-year-old girl named Sarah Barlow or Sarah Jessop—or even Sarah Barlow Jessop. She alleges that her husband has repeatedly raped and beat her, and that she is now pregnant with her second child.”

  I gulped and took a deep breath. I thought of all the girls I knew who would be around that age now, including Sherrie.

  “The girl said she was living on the YFZ. Now, Becky, know this: regardless of what you have to say, or what your feelings are on the matter, it will not affect our decision as to whether or not we investigate this.” He paused. “I’m only asking, based on your experience and knowledge of the people, do you think there could be any merit to these allegations?”

  I was silent for a moment, thinking carefully.

  “Sheriff, I can say that when I was growing up, it was not acceptable for men to beat their wives. We did know of situations where it happened. While Rulon Jeffs did not beat his wives, and to my knowledge Warren did not beat his, he condoned Allen’s beating and raping of Elissa, and there were other cases. From what we’ve learned from Wendell, and from Ben’s sister Kristin in just the last ten days, things have deteriorated drastically. Unfortunately, in my estimation, what the caller described could be plausible.”

  I told him that Sarah Barlow or Sarah Jessop could refer to a number of different girls, although I honestly couldn’t pinpoint who she was. I knew most of the players in the FLDS, but I certainly didn’t know them all.

  “Well, Becky,” he sighed, “there is going to be an investigation on the property. The Texas Rangers will be involved.”

  A lightning bolt of fear shot through me. Suddenly it was 1993 again, and I was a frightened eleventh grader watching in horror as Warren brandished a front-page newspaper article about Waco. “Seventy-six people killed—this is nothing. The government will rain down upon us with bullets and with fire, just like they have done to the Branch Davidians.”

  Even in my limited knowledge of who had poofed, I knew there were many good people on the YFZ ranch, including innocent women and children. I had to remind myself that I could trust Sheriff Doran, who had taken the time to get to know these people, asked questions, and, most important, listened. Of course he wanted to do his job, but he had no desire to punish all of the people for Warren’s actions.

  But Texas Rangers? The name brought to mind visions of rogue, wild cowboys.

  “Please,” I asked quietly. “Is there any way I can speak to the rangers who will be entering the property?”

  “I don’t know, Becky,” he replied.

  “I know. I understand you have a job to do, and my heart aches for this little girl, if this is true. But I know what will be going through the minds of the people on the YFZ.” I paused before blurting out, “These people have not only been preparing for Armageddon, Sheriff; they have been praying for it.”

  There was silence on the line. Then: “I’ll see what I can do, Becky.”

  The next morning, I did everything I could to put Texas out of my mind as I rushed around getting Kyle and Natalia ready for the day. I took comfort in the daily routine until I received a call from the sheriff shortly after ten a.m.

  “Things are heating up,” he said. The NewBridge Family Shelter hotline in San Angelo had received more calls from Sarah saying she was frightened and needed help urgently. She had given a few vague but disturbing details, including that she’d had to hand her baby to another woman to hold while she was being beaten and that she’d been given sedatives. “She sounded drugged this time,” Doran said gravely, and then indicated that it was almost time to go to the ranch to investigate.

  “We’re trying to coax some additional information so we can somehow identify and find her,” he said. They had a team poring over the data they
were collecting, as well as satellite shots of the ranch.

  I pleaded again with him. “If there’s any way I can talk to those men going on the property, let me do so.” Again, he was sympathetic but made no promises. I said a prayer in my heart for the people on both sides of the line. That afternoon, the phone rang again.

  “All right, Miss Becky,” he boomed over a speakerphone. “I’m sitting with the officers who will be going in on the ranch. You said you’d like to speak to them. Here’s your chance.”

  I felt tongue-tied, but I knew that this was the only opportunity I had to give these officers—whoever they were—a window into the mind-set of the people on that ranch, one that could keep everyone safe.

  “This group on the ranch is considered by Warren to be the ‘elite of the elite,’ ” I explained. “They are the upper echelon of ‘God’s people,’ meaning that they are the most obedient. This makes them the most dangerous of all, because they will do whatever their leaders say is God’s will, no matter what.” I paused, praying they would understand the severity I was trying to convey.

  “The way to get the upper hand,” I said firmly, “is to go in as quietly and peacefully as possible. They will not expect this of you. They expect you to come in guns blazing, kicking down doors, pillaging and raping the women and children.”

  I was met with silence, but I pushed on. “You have to understand that the FLDS people have been deliberately schooled by Warren Jeffs about the tragedy at Waco. We were all told that we would be next!”

  There was just one question on the other end: “Are they going to come out, guns blazing at us?”

  I thought about it. “They probably do have guns. My dad had a handgun. Several are woodsmen and hunters. I don’t think they will come out at you that way, though, since they believe that God will strike you down. But Yearning for Zion is not just a name; it is a mind-set! To them, you are the end of the world they have been waiting for, especially since Warren Jeffs, their Prophet, has been incarcerated by what they feel is a wicked government. As I told the sheriff, they have been praying for this—hard. Death would be a mercy to them—a way to honorably earn their eternal salvation. Please, please, do not give them what they are looking for. Surprise them with your kindness.”

  The sheriff took the phone off speaker.

  “Thank you, Becky,” he said gruffly. “Good-bye.”

  I put my face in my hands. I could only pray that what I’d said would somehow make a difference.

  CHAPTER 24

  “Forced” Entry: The Raid

  The next day was one of the most stressful of my life as I waited to hear what was happening. I didn’t hear from Doran until the following evening, when he called to tell me that they had visited the ranch that day, April 3, with warrants in hand, and closed off the roads going to and from the ranch. So far, there had been no altercations, but it hadn’t gone well.

  “Not only did we have a search warrant to find Sarah; Child Protective Services also had a warrant specifically to interview all the girls between seven and seventeen,” he said angrily. “Yet Merrill and his boys forced us to sit at the gates for over three hours before they finally led us onto the property, to a schoolhouse where we could conduct interviews.” Uncle Merrill had joked around with the group, cajoling them as he let three Texas Rangers and the sheriff into the schoolhouse with the CPS workers and one volunteer. Nine watchful rangers stayed outside for everyone’s protection. All of them were forced to wait there for hours until a few girls straggled in.

  “They tried to get us to believe that these were the only young girls on the ranch. We kept asking, ‘Is this all of them?’ and Merrill kept saying, ‘Well, yeah, I think so…’ But while we were waiting, CPS was glancing through student journals that were on the shelves at the schoolhouse, and they realized the journals contained specific entries. You know, events like a new baby in the family, or their sisters getting married—some of them at very, very young ages! Yet none of the authors of the journals, nor the girls listed in them, were within the group they brought to us for interviews! But Merrill would say, ‘Oh, yeah… ya know, I forgot about her… We’ll see if we can figure this out.’

  “Becky, this happened over and over! Our intent was simply to get in there, find Sarah, her baby, and her husband and get them out. We hoped Sarah would see us and run into our arms. While that hasn’t happened yet, there is much more going on here than we’ve ever been told. The whole place is strange, and there’s a picture of Warren Jeffs on every student’s desk.”

  I felt ill just thinking about it.

  “And I’ll tell you something else that Merrill lied about. Judging from the journals, there’s a helluva lot more people on this ranch than just one or two hundred!” All of the rumors we had heard of people poofing from FLDS communities, and houses of hiding, made more sense now.

  “We’re in for a long night,” Doran said finally, sounding exhausted.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Yes, you are.”

  That same night, one of the older patriarchs on the ranch, Sam Roundy Sr., father of Sam Roundy Jr., suffered severe heart pains, and since Lloyd Barlow, the resident doctor, was busy with law enforcement, Sam was taken to a medical center in nearby Eldorado in an ambulance. One of his older wives didn’t dare leave him alone in the outside world, so Deputy Arispe drove her the four miles there. When she got out of the deputy’s car, she looked bewildered.

  “Where are we?” Roundy’s wife asked.

  “You’re in Eldorado, ma’am,” the deputy said, tipping his hat. He realized that the speculations about the women being smuggled in at night to disorient them might be true. They had reached “Zion,” and unless they’d climbed the watchtower, they would have believed they were totally isolated. All of that desert, for miles on end, would have been more than enough deterrent to any woman or child who thought of leaving.

  The nine rangers posted outside the schoolhouse were on high alert. A strict no-fly zone had been established above the ranch, and all roads in and out blocked. A command post had been set up a couple of miles away, manned by sixty or so officers who were also securing a perimeter around the 1,691-acre ranch. The residents quickly realized that there were no escape routes, but rumors flew that some underage girls had somehow been smuggled out. Whatever the case, the rangers on the compound were very tense. They were fully aware that the FLDS had at least a small hunting arsenal of weapons and access to explosives used in constructing the ranch.

  To make matters worse, as dusk settled young men from the ranch had scaled nearby trees wearing night-vision goggles. The rangers, equipped with their own night-vision equipment, could tell they were unarmed, though, and they weren’t very good at being surreptitious—one young man actually fell out of a tree near the schoolhouse, injuring himself. The rangers ignored him and kept their uneasy watch throughout the entire night. Doran told me later that thirty-five to forty FLDS men had wandered in and out of the schoolhouse over the course of the night, as a passive-aggressive tactic.

  It had been impossible for me to sleep, and I gave up even trying to go to work the next day. My every moment was wrapped in prayers and pleadings. With no word from the sheriff, I turned on the television to find the media had been alerted to the events of the previous night. The closing of the roads and gathering of so much law enforcement alerted local reporters Kathy and Randy Mankin that something was going down at the YFZ. They had cleverly devised a monitoring system to decipher radio signals between officers. Since they were close personal friends with Sheriff Doran, they were very careful about which tidbits they shared with the world, but by that morning, April 4, it had hit the national news. I was seeing only what the world was seeing, and it was disconcerting.

  My phone erupted with calls from friends and family, but none of them knew any more than I did. CNN was my only source until the sheriff called around 10:15 a.m. He sounded exhausted. Indeed, their forces had been up all night.

  “You wouldn’t believe this, but
we still haven’t talked to most of those girls listed in the journals as new wives or mothers! Merrill deliberately kept most of them away from the schoolhouse, except for ten girls we were able to interview. Do you happen to know who Dr. Lloyd Barlow is?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “Lloyd married my mother’s younger sister Faye while he was in med school. Once he graduated, he oversaw the Short Creek clinic and became Rulon’s personal physician. After Rulon’s initial strokes, Lloyd was at our estate all the time, and was at Rulon’s side when he died.”

  “Hmm. He seemed like a decent fellow in the beginning,” murmured Doran, “though it quickly became apparent to me he likes to throw his weight around.”

  “Well, he’s got big stakes in the FLDS. His father, Alvin Barlow, was the superintendent of the schools in Short Creek and is a survivor of the ’53 raid. Both are descendants of John Y. Barlow and yes-men to the Prophet.”

  “Interesting,” Doran said. “You know, he came directly to Brooks Long, one of the head rangers of the investigation, saying that he had ‘issues’ with the search warrant. Brooks had him call CPS. During the conversation, using Brooks’s phone, Lloyd Barlow admitted to delivering babies to underage mothers!

  “Also, in the YFZ clinic and birthing center, two of our rangers found records of underage patients whom Barlow had treated for pregnancy. When they reported it, the ranger captains made them go back to gather up that evidence before the FLDS could destroy it all, because during the night, Ruby from CPS smelled something burning and discovered a shredder that had become red-hot from working nonstop. That discovery led us to two industrial-sized garbage bags of freshly shredded documents. Sure enough, when the rangers went back to the clinic, they discovered that some files from the illustrious FLDS doctor’s office had been removed or destroyed. They had to pack up the rest to keep them safe.”