Prosecutor Lisa Gamoian, chief of the district attorney’s homicide division, was quite the opposite. She was tightly wound and always seemed to be in motion. She looked to be in her forties, wore shoulder-length dark hair, glasses, and conservative skirts or pant suits, with dark lipstick that faded as the day went on.
She had a strong case, but for a prosecutor, she seemed to be more on the defensive much of the time. Many of her witnesses were not very cooperative or expressing the answers she wanted, so she paced the courtroom, seemingly agitated, and appeared increasingly tired as the trial progressed.
Proactively taking the wind out of the defense’s argument, Gamoian told the jury that Marcus probably wasn’t the one who actually pulled the trigger that day. But, citing the suicide pact he’d made with his children, she said he was responsible for the murders nonetheless. To convict him under the theory of aiding and abetting, she had to prove only that Marcus had “instigated, promoted, or encouraged” the killings.
This wasn’t news to me, because I knew that investigators had found no fingerprints on the gun, and no gunshot residue on Marcus or any of the victims but Sebhrenah. Marcus was the only person who knew for sure what had happened, and he wasn’t talking. But it was widely believed that Sebhrenah had pulled the trigger, because they’d also found her DNA on the gun. If it was Sebhrenah, she must have lined up her brothers, sisters, and her own son, Marshey, then shot them one by one.
What must that have been like for her, killing the child she wanted so much? Could she really have done it?
Even after covering the case for a year, I was still confused by the Wesson family tree. Gamoian apparently guessed it would be difficult for jurors to follow as well, because she produced a diagram with photos to show the family ties. For the seven youngest victims, she used generic cutout figures—blue for the three boys and pink for the four girls.
For the older girls, she used stern, straight-faced photos from their DMV identification cards, but they looked nothing like the smiling faces I had seen in my apartment and in family photos. I felt bad that these emotionless photos were the images the jury would have of them, but the defense team’s comments about Sebhrenah being fascinated by guns made her look even worse.
Marcus’s two attorneys from the public defender’s office seemed to work well as a team, often consulting each other before speaking. Ralph Torres was fortyish, a sharp dresser with neatly groomed, thick black hair who always wore sunglasses outside the courtroom and strode through the hallways with confidence. His much taller cocounsel, Pete Jones, was more conservative, and the more experienced of the two. He didn’t say much during the guilt phase but sat at the defense table every day, conferring with Torres and making objections. Marcus sat between the two men, who always wore suits and ties.
The defense had already lost its pretrial motion arguing for a change of venue. Stuck with a local jury that had been exposed to all kinds of negative publicity about his client, Torres went all out to lay blame for the murders solely on Sebhrenah.
He said the physical evidence showed that she had killed her eight siblings in the back bedroom, then turned the gun on herself. He said the evidence also proved that Marcus was not in the room when the first seven children were killed, referring to the coroner’s estimate of time of death and an audiotape recorded by one of the relatives trying to rescue Jonathan and Aviv.
Torres said the tape showed Marcus had been calmly trying to quell the custody dispute and even wanted police intervention, saying, “This is a kidnapping. The police should be here already. … Police [are supposed] to protect us from being like idiots.”
After the murders, Torres said, seven of Marcus’s adult children denied the existence of an official suicide plan and dismissed any such thing as being part of their father’s typical ramblings. Torres did not dispute the sex charges, however, conceding that Marcus was a polygamist who practiced incest.
“He was a flawed man who expressed it with deviant behavior,” he said. “But he is a deeply religious man, a zealot, who believes in the Lord, Jesus Christ.”
Later, Torres acknowledged that Marcus “had his own way of raising his children.”
That’s one way to put it.
One day down, who knew how many more to go.
* * *
ON THE DRIVE home that night, I didn’t blast my car radio as I normally did. Instead, I mentally explored the possibility of Marcus getting off. I knew the girls secretly believed he would get out someday, but I felt quite sure he would be behind bars for at least a century on the sex charges alone, given that the DNA evidence proved he’d had children with his daughters and nieces. I relaxed a little.
The girls were waiting up when I got home. We all said hello, but nothing else. I was uncomfortable. They seemed uncomfortable and sad. Even Cosmo was hiding. I tried to use him to break the tension where the elephant was dancing and trumpeting about.
“How was your day?” Elizabeth asked.
“Fine. Yours?”
They all just nodded at me, so I kept talking.
“The weather was a little strange today. We’re allowed to talk about the weather, you know,” I said, trying to make them laugh.
How are they going to make it through their testimony?
I could tell by the prosecutor’s opening statement that she wasn’t going to take it easy on them. She didn’t seem to tolerate any pity toward Marcus, and the girls were still relentlessly defending him. I couldn’t imagine how terrified they were to take the stand. In all the criminal trials I had covered, this was the first time I’d witnessed the emotional toll the legal process could take on a family.
IT SEEMED LIKE bad timing all around, but the one-year anniversary of the murders was only a few days away. Coincidentally, however, a much happier day was also on the horizon: Gypsy’s due date.
Of all the Wesson women, Gypsy was having the most stressful month. Not only was she dealing with the first stages of the trial and the last stages of pregnancy but she was also taking final exams to finish her high school diploma.
Gypsy had signed up for classes right after she’d run away from home. The counselor had told her she could get a GED in less than a year, but once she’d enrolled, another student told her she could get a diploma instead. Gypsy had been dreaming about earning a diploma since she was a little girl. To her, it seemed like the Holy Grail. So she went back to her counselor.
“I’d like to try for my diploma,” she said with determination.
“Gypsy, I don’t recommend that,” he replied, adding that it could take up to four years if she went part-time. “I’d advise you to get your GED.”
But she didn’t plan to go part-time. She planned to throw herself into school and finish as soon as possible. “No, I’ve thought a lot about it. I really want a diploma.”
“Are you sure you’re willing to make that kind of commitment?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Please sign me up.”
All those dreams she’d had about the day she would be in a real school, with real teachers and real lessons, had finally come true.
On her first day, she took an empty seat in the back of the classroom and sat upright with anticipation. Gypsy looked at the desk next to hers and imagined Lise sitting there, thinking how much fun the two of them would have had together. She set her mind on graduating for Lise and Sebhrenah and the Wesson kids who would never have a chance. It was the only way she could see to get revenge against her father.
Taking pride in every assignment, she took diligent notes and studied hard for each test. Her teachers were impressed with her eagerness to learn and wondered why such a bright, motivated young woman didn’t have a diploma. When the news about the murders broke, they learned the reason.
Gypsy missed two weeks of class, but other than a few absences necessitated by her court appearances, she stuck to her schedule. After just eighteen months, Gypsy had earned enough credits to get her diploma. She was scheduled to graduate that June.
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br /> AS HER DUE date approached, Gypsy was worried that her delivery would fall on the same date as the murders. “I’m not having my baby on March twelfth,” she said emphatically.
“Maybe it’s a sign or something,” I said, preparing her for the possibility. “Like something we can positively associate with the day.”
“There will never be anything good about that day, Alysia.”
“Let’s not worry about it right now. Have you thought of her name yet?”
“I’m still not sure,” she said. “I guess it will just come to me.”
ON THE NIGHT before the one-year anniversary, Elizabeth, Kiani, and Rosie were crying. Elizabeth was in her usual spot on the couch, and the girls were in their bedroom. I had the next two days off, but I almost wished I had to work so they could have some privacy to grieve. Then again, I didn’t want them to be alone.
Trying to get their minds off their dead children, I got them all into the living room, where I showed movie after movie and told lighthearted stories. They stopped crying for a little while, but after we retired to our bedrooms, around 2:00 A.M., I could hear them sobbing again.
The next morning, we sat silently in the living room. The TV, which Elizabeth always kept on, was black and cold. The only noise in the room was the crackling and popping of the bowls of cereal no one was eating.
“Why don’t I go get some flowers today and we can place them at the house and have a little memorial service?” I asked.
They all nodded. We decided to wait until after dark, when we figured the reporters would have left.
JUST BEFORE SUNDOWN, I packed my car full of Wessons and drove them over to the house on Hammond Avenue. Reporters and photographers were still hanging around out front, so I pulled into the burger place behind the house. I stayed in the car while the Wessons snuck into the backyard, where they hoped none of the reporters would see them.
I watched in my rearview mirror as they solemnly placed nine long-stemmed red roses at the side of the house under a pine tree, where another family member had lit nine tall prayer candles. The girls hugged and cried while I bowed my head and said a silent prayer. It reminded me of the funerals, only this time the mourners were coming home with me.
After struggling for the right words to say, I decided it was best to say nothing. Everyone cried all the way home. We needed a diversion in a major way. I hoped that Gypsy’s new baby would provide that for us.
GYPSY WENT INTO labor five days later, on St. Patrick’s Day. The Wessons rushed to the hospital, but I was in Modesto, covering a news conference right after the Peterson trial, so Kiani called me every half hour or so to update me on Gypsy’s status. I waited with bated breath for news of the birth—how big the baby was and what she looked like. I knew she would be a blessing for the family. A brand-new beginning.
Kiani called with the news that Gypsy had finally delivered a cute and healthy baby girl. I had never really wanted children, but that day, I was overcome with joy and happiness. I couldn’t wait to meet her.
I had the next day off, and my boyfriend, Juan, had sent me green roses for St. Patrick’s Day, so I grabbed a handful, drove to the hospital, and followed the signs to the maternity ward. Elizabeth, Rosie, and Kiani greeted me in the hallway, smiling and looking happier than I’d seen them in weeks.
I knew this would help them.
The three women led me into the room like proud parents. I realized this was the first nonincestuous baby from a Wesson daughter, and the thought made me hug Gypsy even tighter.
Thank God he will never be near this child.
“Congratulations,” I said with a grin. “Aaaw, is that her?”
I walked toward the window, where the baby was lying in a bassinet, wrapped in a soft pink blanket. She had dark, wavy hair, bright pink, heart-shaped lips, and long black eyelashes. She was perfect. I picked her up and nestled her against my shoulder. She smelled sweet as I laid her warm head in the crook of my neck.
“I love her,” I said.
I counted her fingers and toes, then examined her hospital bracelet. I couldn’t believe what I was reading. I felt the pinch in my nose as tears came to my eyes.
“Her name is …really?” I asked.
“We named her after you,” Rosie said. “Welcome Baby Alysia into the world.”
The gesture touched me in a way I had never felt before. I saw hope in the new life before me; I felt honored and proud to be a part of it.
“Hi, Alysia,” I said, cooing. “We are going to make sure you have such a great life, baby.”
Nineteen
One by one, the prosecution’s witnesses climbed the steps into the witness stand, starting with two of the Fresno police officers who had responded the day of the murders.
At first, Judge Putnam hesitantly allowed us to bring laptops into the courtroom to take notes, but that didn’t last long. The sound of me and the other reporters pounding on our keyboards sent the elderly judge into a frenzy, so he snapped at us to ditch the computers. From Sofia’s testimony onward, I stuck to a pen and paper, scribbling as fast as I could.
Sofia, who was on the stand for five days, smiled while answering some of the questions posed by Ralph Torres, Marcus’s attorney. When asked about her cousin Sebhrenah’s obsession with guns, Sofia said Sebhrenah was her best friend and liked to collect toy guns. She also said that the two of them used to play hunting games when the family lived in the Santa Cruz Mountains, and that Marcus liked to show the family “army movies.”
But Sofia’s voice cracked and her mouth seemed dry as she recalled the twisted details of her childhood and teenage years with Marcus, her brown skin growing flushed with emotion at times, pale at others. One of her stories made my temperature rise, too, and it felt like hives were forming down the back of my neck.
The day she told Marcus she wanted to leave the family, Sofia said, he offered to drive her back to Fresno. On the way there, he pulled over to the side of the road and asked if she was still ready to go to the Lord. She said yes; then, as Marcus leaned in to hug her, she was surprised to feel a sudden and sharp pain in her chest. When she pulled back, she realized that he had stabbed her with the hunting knife he always wore on his ankle.
Hearing this, one of the jurors let out a surprised yelp. I almost did the same thing when Sofia pulled down her shirt to expose the inch-long scar that his knife had left. Two of the jurors began to cry as Sofia described how Marcus beat one-month-old Jonathan until his legs bled. I searched the side of Marcus’s face for expression and saw none.
How can this not faze him?
THAT WAS NOT the case once Ruby took the stand a week later, when Marcus repeatedly wiped away tears as she answered questions about their “marriage” and the first time they had intercourse. Elizabeth and Gypsy had always told me that he’d been partial to Ruby, and so far, her testimony seemed to be affecting him the most. When Ruby outlined the severe beatings he gave her after she ran away the first time, Marcus cried again and shook his head.
Ruby testified that Marcus had the family watch television news reports about the protracted battle between federal agents and the Branch Davidian leader David Koresh, a polygamist who died with nearly eighty of his followers during the fifty-one-day siege in Waco, Texas, in 1993.
Marcus, she testified, told them that he related to Koresh. “This is how the world is attacking God’s people. This man is just like me,” she quoted him as saying. “He is making children for the Lord. That’s what we should be doing, making children for the Lord.”
After that, Ruby explained, she and her sisters and cousins all agreed to have one baby each with Marcus. Later, after she and Sofia left the house and got married, they came back to get their children because they no longer wanted Marcus to raise them. They were also worried that the kids were not getting enough to eat or a proper education.
After hearing about Sofia’s and Ruby’s experiences, I applauded them for being so honest and brave on the stand. I hoped that, when all
of this was over, they could reunite with the other side of the family. It seemed obvious how much they still cared.
WAKING UP ON March 23, I could hear the shower running as Rosie got ready for her first day in court. I stayed in bed, listening to her turn on the blow dryer, then fumble through her makeup bag. I contemplated going out to see how she was doing, but I got as far as my bedroom door before deciding against it and crawling back under the covers.
As I got ready for work a couple of hours later, I thought about what Rosie must be going through that very minute just a few miles away. I wouldn’t get to see for myself because I had to work on another story.
I hope she’s okay.
It was a good thing I wasn’t in court for Rosie’s testimony, because I was fairly sure I wouldn’t have been able to handle it. There are some people who need a shoulder to lean on, and there are people like Rosie. She had issues like everyone else, but she didn’t feel the need to share them and she certainly didn’t want anyone’s sympathy. Of all the Wessons I’d met, I could relate to Rosie the most.
In a way, I respected her toughness. I had once fiercely defended a Russian gymnastics coach of mine much as she stuck up for Marcus. My coach trained four or five of us, ranging in age from eight to fourteen, putting us through a seven-hour daily regime that would intimidate adult bodybuilders. He didn’t tolerate us having fun or laughing; he didn’t want us to show fear or pain. The gym owner eventually stepped in and fired him. Even though I knew he was too hard on us, I felt the need to protect and defend him to my parents. Similarly, Rosie had never changed her position about Marcus, and I didn’t expect her to anytime soon.
At noon, I flipped on another TV station’s news and listened to its reporter nonchalantly summarize Rosie’s morning testimony. Rosie had testified that she loved Marcus and considered herself his wife. But what really got to me was that she said she was still willing to die for him.
I sat alone on my living room floor, shaking my head, my tears falling onto the carpet. How could she still think that way? Would she ever break free from Marcus? When the reporter said Gamoian had questioned Rosie about where she lived, I sat up and listened more closely. Rosie said she’d moved around quite a bit since the murders and was staying with friends.
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