Prophet's Prey

by Sam Brower

  Steadfast Warrenite Alvin Barlow was the longest-tenured public school superintendent on record in Arizona and had been amply rewarded for his tenure. While bouncing teacher payroll checks, the district went into debt by almost two million dollars but bought its own airplane for a quarter-million dollars and supplied loyal FLDS administrators with new SUVs and pickups, phones, and computers. It was a bizarre and convoluted scheme that began before I started my investigation, for which I was thankful. I did not need that on my plate, too.

  But for Arizona attorney general Terry Goddard to intervene on the old issue of the schools at this particular time gave Warren Jeffs something else to worry about. The various government agencies that had ignored him for so long were awakening.

  The prophet, on the run and hiding out, stayed just ahead of the approaching storms. I still did not know where he was. That did not mean that I was idle, though. Far from it. I was staying in touch with Candi in hopes of convincing her how important her testimony in court would be to other young girls who were coming of age on the FLDS bridal farms. But she was no longer the only bullet in the gun. In July, after a quiet meeting in Baltimore with Joanne Suder, the courageous Elissa Wall chose to get involved. “I didn’t want to pull any punches in my efforts to get Warren,” she would later write in her bestselling autobiography Stolen Innocence.

  I had been at a conference in Mesquite, Nevada, that summer when Brock Belnap, the Washington County prosecutor located in St. George, Utah, had pulled me aside. He had received a tip that we may have found a solid new witness who might be willing to testify against the FLDS leader, and said, “If there’s something criminal involved in this, let me know.” Now it was time. Roger Hoole placed a call to Belnap, and he started an investigation, working closely with Elissa and protecting her identity to avoid FLDS obstruction in the case, as they had done with Candi.

  Then, another break. At three o’clock in the morning on October 28, 2005, Seth Steed Jeffs, the road-running courier brother of the prophet, was lying on a mattress in the back of a Ford Excursion SUV driven by Nathaniel Allred when police pulled them over in Pueblo County, Colorado, expecting to find a drunk driver. Inside the vehicle, the cops found a cache of unusual material: a laptop, letters addressed to the prophet, church records, $142,000 in cash, some $7,000 in prepaid debit and phone cards, along with a GPS and a glass jar bearing the label “Pennies for the Prophet” and a photo of Warren Jeffs, a gift from the FLDS children. Both Jeffs and Allred were arrested.

  The frightened Allred was scared to death, consumed with fear about going to a gentile jail and with guilt for having accompanyied his cousin on the trip. The savvy deputy advised the young man that honesty might buy him a break, but lying would most certainly buy him some jail time. That was all it took. Nate told police that Seth had paid him five thousand dollars to accompany him on the road trip and have sex with him. Jeffs stonewalled police, claiming he did not know the prophet’s location, and said, “even if I did know, I wouldn’t reveal the information to you.” Charges against Allred were dropped in exchange for his cooperation, but prosecutors wanted federal prison time for the prophet’s sibling. Seth Jeffs was charged with soliciting prostitution and harboring a fugitive. A plea deal was reached for Seth to plead guilty to harboring a fugitive and the soliciting prostitution charges would be dropped. The final word lay with a naïve federal judge who moralized that he “would not visit the sins of the brother [Warren]” upon Seth Jeffs. Seth got off with a slap-on-the-wrist sentence of three years probation and a $2,500 fine. It seemed straight out of the FLDS playbook.

  Seth Jeffs, who had been caught aiding and abetting his fugitive brother, fell on his sword and took a hit for God and the prophet, with no real scars to show for it. He was now a martyr for the cause, and to an FLDS man it doesn’t get much better than that. Shortly after his early release from probation, he appeared on Oprah from the Texas compound, where he was regarded as a hero. His appearance was scripted by church leaders, and he gave the TV crew the old Red-Cross-in-the-concentration-camp tour of the ranch. He criticized the persecution of his church and showed off seven of his wives and nineteen children. When asked if he thought a young girl should enter into a marriage or spiritual union, Seth opined that it was her choice. “Who really cares?” he asked.

  I was frustrated by his bluster, by the apathy displayed by the federal courts, and by the misleading impression left with Oprah’s television audience. I was more interested in how Seth had screwed up, made a mistake, and gotten caught out on the roads. Warren, under growing pressure, just might do the same thing.

  CHAPTER 28

  The Turf War

  The Candi Shapley situation became increasingly bizarre after her grand jury testimony. Her emotions were all over the map as she found herself caught between enormous pressure from the church and her family, and her legal obligation to stand by what she had told the grand jury under oath in a court of law.

  Out of the blue, her mother, Esther, initiated a cat-and-mouse game with me about a month after Candi had testified. After being kicked out of the church, Bill Shapley was allowed back into the fold for the express purpose of making sure that his errant daughter didn’t succeed in giving up the prophet. For Bill, it was a religious calling and his salvation and status in the church was dependent on his success. For his obedience, he was given his wives and family back, all but Esther. Warren wouldn’t allow her to be restored as one of the wives of the redeemed Bill Shapley. Over time, she explained to me why Warren had singled her out: She had been raped as a young girl by an older relative who had then piled enough guilt on her to make Esther think the assault was somehow her fault. She had never revealed that secret until Warren came to power, and then in a fit of conscience initiated by Warren’s incessant digging into the private lives of members, she had confessed everything to him. Instead of punishing the rapist, Warren considered Esther soiled from the contact, and forbade her from rejoining Bill as a wife when he was allowed back in the church. Besides, she was past her childbearing years and had become a liability instead of an asset to the family. Instead, she was given a small widow’s stipend and permission to visit with her other two daughters, who remained in Bill’s custody, while she went to live in seclusion with a group of other such “widows.” Even those “privileges” would be at risk if she was disobedient, and Lyle Jeffs, Warren’s brother, was her watchdog.

  Consequently, Esther also was conflicted about whether to defend and do what was best for her daughter Candi or please the FLDS authorities. A short time after our first meeting in a little park near Coral Canyon, the FLDS punished Esther by whisking away her daughters Annay, thirteen, and Billie, sixteen. The girls went willingly, but it was a clear message to Esther that Big Brother was watching and her youngest children could and would disappear at any time if she didn’t do as she was commanded, and “keep sweet” about it. She was scared that she wouldn’t see her children again, and she had written down the tag numbers of the Chevy Suburbans that had taken the girls away. She then quietly passed the plate numbers to me. I in turn passed those along to the FBI, who started to consider their options of how to deal with the situation. The FBI agents felt they needed to locate the two missing girls and place the entire crew of Esther, Candi, and the two younger sisters into the federal Witness Protection Program. I was hoping Esther would be strong enough to take a leap of faith and leave the only life she had ever known. She agreed, and was about to take the plunge and go into the program, but just before the FBI was about to make the final arrangements, Esther backed down. She just didn’t have the strength to turn her back on the cultural and religious ties that bound her to the only home she had ever known. This on-again, off-again contact went on for several months before Esther called me urgently one evening in December 2005. She had a key to her ex-husband’s insurance office and sometimes would sneak in there after business hours to call me without being overheard. One evening she called from there, worried that the FLDS was monitorin
g her movements. About fifteen minutes into the call, she became nervous because there were people milling around outside, and they seemed to be checking out the building. Soon they were banging on the doors and windows of the office. “They’re here! They’re going to be coming in!” she cried.

  I worked out a quick code: Use the word “notebook” in a sentence if it was the police, and not just some God Squad enforcer, who entered the room. Almost immediately, I heard a lot of noise, and then she said, “Okay, I’ll have to check my notebook and get back to you.” The crooked cops had her. An hour later, she called again, as calm as a summer pond, her words cryptic and machine-like. “Hello. I’m not going to be talking to you anymore. I’m okay and there’s nothing to worry about. I am happy. Please don’t bother me or try to call me.” I asked if anyone was listening to the call, to which she responded, “Yes, I have to go,” and the phone went dead.

  Three days later, the distraught Esther called yet again, asking if she could come by my office. Once inside, she told me that Lyle Jeffs, the prophet’s strong-arm brother, had threatened to take away her widow’s stipend, and had warned that he was awaiting word on whether she would even be allowed back on FLDS Priesthood property. That would have marked the end of her shelter and any means of support; she feared being left homeless and destitute. While we spoke, Lyle called on her cell phone. Esther went stone-faced, using her best “keep sweet” voice to repeat “yes, sir” three times, then she said “thank you” and hung up. Lyle had just delivered the death blow that she would never be permitted to see her children again, and would not be welcome back in the Crick. Esther broke down and sobbed, talking of suicide and how to make it appear accidental. I offered help, but she just turned it away. All I could do was spend time with her and try to convince her that there was more to life than living under the rule of tyrants. She was inconsolable—a plyg woman who was almost sixty, on her own with no home and no means of support, who now didn’t even have her children to love her. Once again, there had been no due process of law, and no mercy.

  Lyle was not yet finished; he was waiting the next morning as Esther approached her car after leaving the motel room where she ended up spending the night after leaving my office. He had been following her. This time he dangled an attractive carrot under her nose: The prophet might be magnanimous enough to reinstate her in the church on probationary status, and allow her to keep her stipend, as long as she would obey the priesthood in all things. What else could she do? Esther accepted Lyle’s offer and became a tool to help control her traitorous daughter.

  I gained valuable insights in how ruthless the FLDS can be in response to a challenge, and the tactics they would use and great lengths they would go to to threaten a witness. I wasn’t sure that Candi would ever make it to a courtroom, but I hoped that, sooner or later, a stronger witness would somehow emerge.

  That moment was approaching faster than anyone expected. Elissa Wall trusted us, but she had remained apprehensive of the process. She had been observing Candi’s experiences, using them as a roadmap for what lay ahead. She wanted some protection against what we all feared, inevitable FLDS retaliation. Roger Hoole, representing Elissa, and Washington County prosecutor Brock Belnap drafted a confidentiality agreement that would not only protect her identity, but would also allow her the freedom to withdraw from the action if the pressure became unbearable.

  As part of the camouflage, the prosecutor put off charging Elissa’s ex-husband, Allen Steed, with anything at all until after Warren Jeffs was arrested and tried. To name Steed prematurely would tip off the FLDS that Elissa was involved. Elissa’s safety was more important than Steed. Under those conditions, she agreed to go forward.

  A civil suit accusing Warren Jeffs of placing an unidentified child in an illegal and incestuous underage marriage was filed under the pseudonym of “M. J.” on December 13, 2005. Not only were the initials fictitious, but the filing was made far away from Short Creek, in Cedar City, Utah. The plaintiff sought damages from not only the prophet but also from the FLDS church and the UEP Trust. The lawsuit kept Elissa so far in the background that there was little for the FLDS to track.

  Two weeks later, on New Year’s Day 2006, Elissa Wall did one of the hardest things a victim of abuse can do: During long interviews with detectives and attorneys from Washington County, Utah—basically, a bunch of strangers—she relived her experiences in an outpouring that left her tearful and exhausted. Step by step, Elissa grew more determined, and at the end, the authorities were convinced she was going to be a strong witness. On April 5, 2006, Elissa Wall completed two more exhaustive interviews with the police and prosecutors, and Brock Belnap felt that he had heard enough. He hit Warren Jeffs with two felony charges of rape as an accomplice.

  The identity protection went to a higher level when the prosecutor identified the plaintiff in this case as Jane Doe IV. Only a handful of people knew that Elissa, M. J., and Jane Doe IV were the same person.

  The biggest dog in the hunt for Warren Jeffs was the FBI. The Bureau had been there all along, but they kept their support very quiet. Now, because Warren had crossed so many state lines so often, he was wanted as a federal fugitive in addition to being sought on the various state and civil charges. As 2006 dawned, the Bureau got into the game for real, bringing to bear their immense resources.

  A lot of these guys were friends of mine. We had a history of working together on other cases long before the FLDS investigation came along: I had helped them break up a ring of gem thieves; and I had assisted in a sting operation to catch a pedophile who had been preying on a thirteen-year-old girl, as well as several other cases. Over the years, I had learned to trust them and also had learned how to obtain their help and resources. When I approached them with an idea on how to put even more pressure on the prophet, they were receptive.

  On June 27, 2005, the FBI issued what we call a UFAP (Unlawful Flight to Avoid Prosecution) warrant for the arrest of Warren Jeffs, backed up with a reward of $50,000.

  Over the next year, Gary and I lobbied for even more federal help, and on May 6, 2006, the FBI bumped him up to the Ten Most Wanted list and doubled the reward to $100,000. Finally, the prophet’s words had been proven right: He was now among the elite of the international criminals being hunted by the FBI, right up there with Osama bin Laden.

  My popularity among the FLDS members had sunk to new lows in Short Creek over the past few months. When I walked into the Colorado City Mercantile Cooperative (the general store), I was always treated to an impressive display of mobile communication devices as cell phones were whipped out to report that the demon gentile private investigator was back in the Crick. Soon, a plyg-rig convoy of trucks would show up on the streets, not just one, but six or eight. It was annoying.

  Then the goons went too far. They decided to harass me at my home, something I would not tolerate. That spring, my wife mentioned that she had seen some pickup trucks with tinted windows pull into our driveway a couple of times and just sit there until our dogs barked at them. Then they would slowly back out and speed away. Since my house is situated on twenty acres at the end of a dead-end road that is two and a half miles long, there was no reason for anybody to just happen to be coming out to our place unannounced.

  A few days after she told me about the trucks, she called me to the front porch; they were back. A pickup truck towing a trailer was idling in our driveway. Four people were in it, and when they spotted me, they took off. I jumped into my white SUV and we raced down the dirt road and then onto the highway, where I pulled up beside them and motioned for them to pull over. Instead, they tore along for another eight miles until they swerved onto another dirt road, stopping only when it dead-ended at the DeMille Turf Farm. I boxed them in.

  Not knowing who they were, their intentions, or whether they were armed, I was reluctant to approach the truck, but they were just sitting there, so I stalked over and rapped on the driver’s window until he rolled it down. Inside sat three buttoned-up men and one wom
an, who wore a typical fundamentalist prairie dress. It was the FLDS.

  “Hey! Do you know who I am?” I shouted in the driver’s face. All four looked down and refused to answer. I was furious, they had crossed the line by coming to my home and it would not be tolerated. My face was now within inches of the man behind the wheel as I screamed again, “Do you know who I am!” The driver, staring down at the floor, shook his head that he did not. Then I asked the others, who did the same, so I cleared up the mystery for them.

  “I’m Sam Brower! Why were you at my house?”

  “Oh, we were just lost,” the driver mumbled.

  I was seeing red. These thugs were invading my family home and needed a lesson, fast. “Listen,” I told him. “You come to my house again and trespass on my property, I’m going to splatter you all over my driveway. You understand? Go back and tell the people who sent you … you come to my house again, I will splatter you. Do you understand?”

  They sat there not saying a word, and I wanted to make sure there was no misunderstanding. I reached in and knocked the baseball cap off the driver’s head. It flew into the face of the guy in the back. “You understand me?” The guy quickly nodded his head and said he did.

  “So, if you were lost, why are you here?” I demanded.