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

by Musser, Rebecca

  But I rejoiced the few times I saw the real Savannah underneath.

  She laughed when I told her I was still mad at Seth for leaving her in the garden to have her baby while he bounded off to play in St. George with some of Rulon’s wives.

  “I was so mad at him then, but when I went through my first labor with Kyle, I could have killed him for both of us!” Her eyes filled with mirth as she asked about Kyle and Natalia. I delightedly showed her pictures on my phone and described their vibrant personalities. Seeing the compassion and concern that Savannah had for Natalia’s health was healing for me. We hugged before she left, and I waited a bit before I left the room, incognito once again.

  On my way back I encountered Rebecca, who told me they had brought a group of women and children back from the park, but they still couldn’t find Sherrie. From the beginning we’d been unable to find my mother. Now both Sherrie and Ally were nowhere to be found.

  Once again, it seemed, my sisters had slipped through my fingers.

  Finally, I had to resign myself to allowing Mom, Sherrie, and Ally their path. It was probably one of the hardest decisions I’d ever had to make. All the suffering, all the unanswered prayers… I didn’t have the stamina for much more, and I knew then I had to honor their choices, once and for all.

  The next day, I headed to another building adjacent to the coliseum, where many of the adolescent girls were residing. Not bothering with a disguise, I dressed in a professional skirt, soft blue blouse, black heels, and curled hair. They all knew I was there, and part of me wanted the women and girls to know that I was fighting for them. As I entered the building, I saw Uncle Roy’s granddaughter staring at me. I sat down, leaned over to the CPS worker next to me, and murmured, “Watch the news spread.” It was like a tidal wave crashing from girl to girl.

  The first girl took out her notebook and flipped to a clean page before she waltzed up to me, the rest of the girls behind her.

  “Who are you?”

  “You know who I am,” I said easily.

  “Oh, do I?”

  “Yes, you do.” I stopped for a moment. “Look at you young girls! You have all grown up to be such beautiful young women. I was Mother Becky, married to Uncle Rulon. Do you remember me?”

  She ignored my question. “Why are you here?”

  “I am here to help.”

  “You’re not helping.”

  “You know what might really help,” I said, “is if you would stop switching around your names and wristbands.”

  The girls looked like they’d been caught with their hands in the cookie jar. But all I felt was love and compassion, especially for the girls on the bottom of the totem pole. I wished they could know they were valuable and exquisite, just for being who they were.

  That afternoon, the sheriff took me to a place close to his heart, Our Lady of Grace Carmelite Monastery, just outside of Christoval. As we drove up through the desert to the beautiful Spanish Mission–style stone buildings, I did my best to reserve judgment, but my childhood indoctrination that Catholicism was the “great and abominable church” still lingered.

  When I entered and saw the pictures of Pope Benedict XVI on the wall, I was reminded of how Warren’s photo was in every room of his followers’ homes on the YFZ. I was sickened by what had happened in the FLDS temple. Surely this was the same.

  Then I met Sister Mary Grace. The moment she walked out to greet us, something within my soul shifted.

  “Oh, my dear,” she said, her voice breaking in compassion. “We have been praying for you. We have been praying for the highest outcome for everyone involved on the ranch.” I stared into her gentle eyes in disbelief. She and her sisters had not only prayed for law enforcement; they were praying for my people—not against them.

  After our talk, I wandered outside alone, looking up at the tall stone walls and feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin. Taking a breath, I entered the chapel alone. Awe-inspiring and yet intimate, it was intensely still. Too still.

  I hadn’t experienced any quiet since I had come to Texas. Finally no longer able to control my thoughts or emotions, I burst into tears of frustration and shame, anger and pain. My heart cried out to the God that I had begun to love but still did not fully understand. How could I have come from a people able to commit atrocities against children in his name? How could he allow it? I cried until all my emotions were spent.

  Then something surprising developed out of my new stillness—a peace so profound that it covered my soul like a soft blanket. I could almost feel loving arms around me. And then I had the urge to embrace the love I felt right back.

  I stepped reverently from that chapel with a startling realization. Man was fallible. No one, not the Dalai Lama nor any Prophet, pope, or minister, was beyond reproach. To follow blindly was to shut down our sacred voice of reason and deny the God that lived in each of us. I had to realize that everyone, even I, had the capacity to be a tyrant. And every one of us had the capacity to embody charity, love, and mercy. Nobody was all bad, and nobody was all good. We were human.

  CHAPTER 30

  The Marijuana House

  Shortly after five o’clock that Friday morning, I was awakened by a disturbing call from the police telling me to gather my things immediately. Trying not to be terrified, I questioned the officer, who informed me that that morning an article had been published in Utah’s Deseret News with the headline “Ex-FLDS Woman Cause of Raid,” with the subtitle:

  Testimony offered by a Texas child protection supervisor revealed Thursday that a woman at the center of the Warren Jeffs trial was instrumental in persuading law enforcement to raid the YFZ Ranch.

  Both the headline and article were wildly misleading; the article also mentioned my involvement in Warren’s Utah trial, saying that my testimony helped convict him. While the News was requested to change the article and title for accuracy, papers had already been delivered, and law enforcement took no chances. For the next two days, I stayed at a duplex at the remote Our Lady of Grace. It was hoped no one would think to look for me there.

  That day, Doran revealed that a woman named Rozita Swinton in Colorado Springs had been linked to the phone calls and that “Sarah Barlow” might have been a hoax! When I asked how she could possibly have that much working knowledge of FLDS lingo, Doran voiced Texas’s suspicions: Rozita may have gathered information from a former FLDS member who was residing at the same rehab facility as she was.

  While I was relieved that there was no young lady named Sarah being held against her will and beaten on that ranch, these calls had caused tremendous damage to many people’s lives. And from this, the media was calling into question the entire investigation, raid, and removal of children and evidence.

  When I talked to Brooks about it, he shook his head.

  “Becky, I’ll tell you one thing. I’ve been here more than once. We’ll either be labeled as Texas’s greatest heroes, or shit on a stick. What people think of us can’t matter. We have to do our jobs—we must protect the people.” He took off his hat and looked right at me. “Let’s say I get a call about a marijuana house, and I get a search warrant to search for marijuana. Only thing is, I go in that house and I don’t find a speck of marijuana… but I do find cocaine and methamphetamines and speed and LSD. I’m not going to turn around and leave just because I haven’t found any marijuana. I’m going to do my job, seize evidence of crimes, and arrest the individuals committing those crimes.”

  I didn’t know much about the law, but that made perfect sense to me. In reports that would become public a few days later, Texas authorities would disclose that 25 mothers on the YFZ ranch were under eighteen years old. Of the 53 girls aged fourteen to seventeen, 31 of them had birthed a child or were pregnant at the time of the raid.

  Judge Walther heard twenty-one hours of testimony before ordering all children to remain in protective custody. She ordered children and adults to undergo DNA testing to prove family relationships. She then ordered that children be given in
dividual hearings to determine their return home or placement in foster care. Officials tried to keep siblings together and to respect the beliefs of the FLDS, although that was hard with the number of siblings some families had. I felt the judge was acting fairly in trying to do what was best for the children.

  Wrapping up the last of my CPS reports that night, I sighed. There was still so much to be done, but I had bills, a family, and a home to get back to.

  I boarded a flight to Idaho, eager to see my children and anxious to see Ben, too. I hoped that somehow we could mend our rapidly deteriorating relationship.

  One afternoon back in Idaho I rushed home, kids in tow, cell phone pinned to my ear. I’d had more than fifteen calls from Texas that day, beginning at six a.m., and I was still on one last call as I walked into the house. Ranger Nick Hanna called me often to verify information and photos. From the entire range of people, there would be only three I could not identify, and he was always grateful to me for my time and insight, telling me, “We couldn’t do this without you.” But I was determined to shut off the phone at night and be present for my family.

  I set Natalia down inside and went back out to get the mail. When I opened my cell phone bill, I literally dropped to the ground.

  “You okay, Mommy?” asked Kyle from the doorway, his blue eyes full of concern. I couldn’t answer. How was I going to tell Ben that the bill for the previous month was over $700? Surely this alone was grounds for divorce! I quickly sent e-mails or texts to most of my Texas contacts, requesting that unless it was a dire emergency, they restrict our correspondence to e-mails.

  That night after dinner when the kids were busy playing, I hesitantly showed Ben the bill. He hit the roof.

  “Enough is enough!” he thundered. “They get paid for this shit and you don’t! You are to cut off all calls and communication with anyone having anything to do with Texas!”

  I was about to nod as usual, but something stopped me.

  “No. I cannot, Ben. I know you don’t understand, but this is serious, and I won’t abandon any of them—our people… or Texas.” As I held my ground for the first time in our relationship, I watched his eyes grow bigger in disbelief. He sat stunned for several moments, before turning red with anger.

  “What did they do to you? Did you sleep with some cowboy down there or something? You’re messed up in the head.”

  But I wasn’t messed up at all. I’d been living in a canyon all my life, until I experienced freedom and equality that was as open and beautiful as the Texas sky.

  Every night I watched the news as the fighting in the courts continued to intensify, and 111 children were relocated to foster homes. The FLDS were still unwilling to cooperate with government on any level. It hurt me to see mothers crying on-screen, yet hundreds of parents openly showed contempt of court by not appearing upon the judge’s orders to be swabbed for painless, oral DNA tests. They were hurting themselves the worst. Willie Jessop continued his campaign of lies, asking Utah’s governor to intervene, attempting to deliver a letter to President Bush while he was visiting his home state, and purportedly asserting huge pressure on the guardians ad litem of particular families.

  State attorneys brought out scandalous evidence seized in the raid, the most damning a photo of Warren kissing Merrianne Jessop when she was so small that he had to cradle her in his arms. It was not a fatherly kiss. Fifty-year-old Warren was giving his twelve-year-old bride the romantic, intimate kiss of a husband. A version of the photo with Merrianne’s face blurred was flashed on news screens throughout the world and caused a huge public uproar.

  Despite this, the District Court ordered the return of all the children to their parents on June 2, having determined that CPS had not met the burden of proof required for their removal. Two days later, every child was back on the ranch, except two kept in foster care due to strong evidence of abuse in their home. As soon as the families regained custody, half of them absconded from the YFZ and relocated to other FLDS sites, most of them outside of Texas. Many others trickled out as time went on. Just as it had feared, CPS would no longer be able to protect these children.

  The statistics were staggering to me. One hundred forty-six families were investigated by CPS. Out of 439 children, two of whom were born in protective custody, 275 were declared victims of sexual abuse as defined by the Texas penal code, and 262 had been subjected to neglect. CPS conservatively stated that more than one out of every four pubescent girls on the ranch was involved in an underage marriage, though I noticed the number was actually very close to half. One hundred twenty-four adults were designated “perpetrators” of abuse, meaning men who engaged in underage marriages, and parents who failed to prevent underage marriages while letting their other children see this cycle as normal.

  Lawyers, politicians, and players all pointed fingers, but in my mind the focus needed to be on the future. While I still strongly believed in religious freedom, I wanted to know how a nation could protect those rights and still safeguard their most vulnerable citizens.

  Something had to change.

  CHAPTER 31

  Destroying Ignorance, Not People

  The YFZ raid sparked much controversy about the modern Mormon Church, whose members were understandably frustrated that people across the nation wrongly associated their beliefs with those of Warren Jeffs. After I came home, I did my own research to discover that there were no beds whatsoever in the modern temples of the Mormon Church. In fact, Mormon temple ceremonies had undergone a series of changes within the past century, each time more deeply honoring an individual’s privacy. It was Warren who had taken something sacred and twisted it for his own pleasure.

  Feeling like the stress of the raid and its aftermath was eating me alive, I decided to try yoga. As it became a daily practice, I began to feel a peace come from within. Yoga helped me to prepare for Natalia’s first surgery. We had applied and qualified for a special program at Shriners Hospitals in Salt Lake City, and by some miracle, Dr. Siddiqi was to be the main surgeon for the series she needed! He actually donated two surgery days a month to Shriners. Recognizing a divine hand in the process, I was able to take a deep breath and let go of Natalia’s tiny hand as she was wheeled away for the first surgery.

  Though Natalia recovered without incident, Ben and I still fought regularly. Whenever he thought I was getting a call from out of state, he would grow icily cold. We both knew it was time to get away or our marriage would not survive. We scheduled a vacation with a friend and her family for a few days on the California coast.

  Diana was stunningly beautiful. She had escaped the FLDS with the young man she chose to marry. Had they not left on their own, he would have likely joined thousands of lost boys, and she would have been given to an older, elite member.

  Early one morning, Diana and I went for a walk down the beach while everyone else was still sleeping.

  “How do you feel about all of the men being indicted in Texas?” she asked.

  I bowed my head, unable to look at her. A month before, with no support from Ben, I’d flown to Texas to testify in front of a grand jury, which would determine whether any criminal indictments would be issued against FLDS members. For my safety, law enforcement didn’t want anyone besides Ben knowing I was there.

  “It’s very upsetting to me,” I said, my voice cracking. “Men that I loved for so many years—some of them all of my life. Men that I respected, and looked up to…”

  “And now?” she asked cautiously.

  Unsure about what I could legally share, I told her only what had been made public. “After all the evidence I’ve seen, and more on the way… I’m so disgusted, so sad and angry! Every day more evidence comes to light. It’s very sobering for all of our people.”

  Since the grand jury, I had been in a depression, and I hadn’t sought out the names of men being indicted. But Ranger Nick Hanna had called me after the grand jury to let me know they were indicting twelve men. He’d been reading hundreds of “confession letters” th
at Warren had collected to manipulate his people.

  “Becky,” he had told me somberly, “there’s some very sick, criminal behavior going on among these people. It may not be in every family, but it’s rampant. We’ve gathered some pretty damning evidence that the governments of Canada, Utah, and Arizona would be mighty interested in.”

  Late that fall, I began to feel that something was drastically wrong with my body. The base of my spine was tight and I was experiencing enormously painful spasms. The ache became incessant, getting in the way of normal functioning with my kids and work. One day I felt a large growth at the base of my spine, and my doctor was unable to offer an explanation, which only added to the stress of the situation.

  In December I was subpoenaed to meet with Matthew J. Smith, Mojave County special attorney, regarding the Arizona case against Warren. Despite the fact that I was in so much pain I could hardly move, I was deposed in Salt Lake City to answer questions from Warren’s attorneys. He was expected to stand trial in Arizona early the following year. Smith warned me about defense attorney Mike Piccarreta, and I dreaded facing him. I had asked some friends at the holistic heath center to say a prayer for me. I was deeply touched by the prayer e-mailed to me:

  … May they be strong and peaceful, may they destroy ignorance and not people, may they create not conflict but light, love, and understanding… May the judges and all involved have the clarity to hear Truth clearly… May the anger and pain in the room be removed. May you see each other as you are.

  I hoped I could remember these words instead of the painful feelings I’d had during the early part of Warren’s trial, my hands balled into fists as his lawyers questioned my integrity and my morals, and continually insinuated I had slept with Ben before I left the FLDS. I wrote “LOVE” on my hand as a visual reminder to keep me grounded, no matter what. Although Warren wouldn’t be there, I still dressed in red. I may have been forced into the deposition, but I was a woman of free will.