Though the church leadership was well-protected by local law enforcement, it seemed apparent that state and federal governments were starting to crack down on our people. Warren said we were being harassed, and nearly every Sunday in church, leaders reported on the growing external pressure we were facing from lawsuits, depositions, and tax fraud investigations. The United Effort Plan, or UEP, which had originally been set up by church officials in 1942 to control homes, some businesses, and land within the towns of Short Creek (and eventually all other FLDS enclaves), was part of living the United Order, or the Law of Consecration—the same law under which my father had signed his Salt Lake house over to the church. Loyal families did not own their own homes but rather lived in them by special invitation of the church, which owned the land. The Prophet, as president, had total control over the homes on the land and therefore all temporal, earthly blessings regarding the people.
Those at odds with the Priesthood, especially those at odds with Warren, would find themselves with no house to live in. The few brave enough not to leave when ordered to discovered they had no running water, electricity, or gas with which to sustain their families. If they still stayed, a visit from the “God Squad” usually did the trick.
Uncle Fred ran his house in much the same way, and he decided the fate of each young person under his roof with cold disregard for their wishes or needs. After my brothers were banished or escaped, Fred decided my little sister Elissa, only thirteen, was ready for marriage. When it was announced it would be to Allen Steed, I was even more appalled. Allen was not only our first cousin; he had been exceptionally cruel to Elissa the winter she was young, sick, and vulnerable on the Steed ranch. I couldn’t see that he had matured much since then.
Elissa spoke with Uncle Fred several times to beg him to see reason and give her just two more years before marrying. However, he was adamant she be plucked immediately. Allen had done a lot of work for Uncle Fred, and Elissa seemed to be his reward. Fred also wanted Elissa safely married off before she could rebel as our brothers had. When she pointed out that Allen was her first cousin, Fred admonished her, “These things make no difference in matters of the Lord!” Though bloodlines among the people were usually considered in regard to marriage, if the Prophet directed it, it was believed God would honor the union. Biological and scientific issues would not come to pass as long as the couple had “enough faith.” Christine, Mom, and I were highly disturbed at the whole situation, but as women we had absolutely no say.
The ceremony was to take place almost immediately following her fourteenth birthday, and Warren had already directed me to help Mom make Elissa’s wedding dress. As a last resort, she made an appointment to see the Prophet, which meant that she would talk to Warren and only shake Rulon’s hand. The day she came to visit Rulon, I was the head cook, and I greeted her in the driveway, hugging her and wishing her luck before returning to my duties. I was in the dining room with Rulon when Warren strode through the French doors and brusquely asked if Elissa Wall could shake our Prophet’s hand. Rulon motioned for her to come in. I watched Elissa kneel before the Prophet, taking his hand, but pleading with her eyes and speaking softly to him, with Warren’s narrowed gaze locked on her. I held my breath. I could tell it hadn’t gone well in Warren’s office.
“I’m trying to be a good girl and do what I’m told,” Elissa told Rulon. “But I need more time.”
Rulon smiled and patted her hand.
“Follow your heart, sweetie,” he said. “Just follow your heart.”
Elissa looked at me and our eyes both filled with relief. Warren looked livid.
After lunch, Elissa went back to Uncle Fred’s to tell him what the Prophet had said and ask again for more time. He refused, very unhappy that she questioned his authority. He threatened that if she rejected this blessing now, she might not ever get another chance to marry—ever! For a girl in Uncle Fred’s compound with nowhere else to go, this was a crushing pronouncement. Women were not allowed to live out on their own. This meant if she did not marry she would always be a ward of another man and shamed for her rebellion.
Christine and I made another appointment with Rulon to plead for more time, but when we arrived, Warren was already there. A chill ran down my spine.
Rulon sat while Christine and I kneeled at his feet and recounted Elissa’s story to him. He seemed very surprised that Fred was asking Elissa to marry her own first cousin. He started to become upset, at which point Warren stepped in.
“Uncle Fred has asked that this marriage happen, Father.”
“Oh,” replied Rulon.
“But Father, she just turned fourteen!” I exclaimed.
Rulon looked at me in surprise. “What the hell is Fred thinking?” he bellowed, and looked at Warren.
“Well, Father, he’s insisting that this go on. He’s asked that this happen, and we want to support him in that.” Within moments it was clear to me what was happening. Warren obviously needed to keep Fred as a political ally. Rulon’s eyes became clouded with confusion as Warren kept on, and within minutes, Rulon backed Fred again.
My family was crushed and I was outraged, but Mom and I finished Elissa’s wedding dress, having been admonished by Fred and Warren to make my little sister happy in “her decision.” Knowing that we had done all women were allowed, I did my best to convince her to be joyful at the “will of God,” as I was told to say. At her fitting in my mother’s room at Uncle Fred’s, I struggled to pin the lace precisely into place onto the dress, as Elissa’s body heaved with great sobs. I was crying inside. My only consolation was that Allen was not old like my husband and so many others. I did not like him, but I told her that they might perhaps grow to love each other. Silently I prayed that he would treat her well.
As I watched my baby sister being driven away to the Caliente Motel in Nevada, which was now seeing a steady flow of child brides, I wanted to run, scream, yell, and beat on the car. But I had to hold on to the only power I had—the buffer of my husband. If I acted rashly or disobediently, the little help I could give my mother and sisters would come to a screeching halt. Choking back tears, my mother and I soberly decorated the “honeymoon hideout”—a bedroom next to Mom’s in Fred’s house that was set aside for Allen and Elissa. What she was being forced to face that night was not right. It had been horrible for me at nineteen, and she was still a little girl.
Despite the promise he’d made to give her time, Allen forced Elissa to consummate the marriage almost immediately. Though she didn’t say anything for several weeks, we could tell something was drastically wrong. Amelia, whose husband was much younger than mine, knew precisely the questions to ask when she called from Canada, especially, “What does he do when you say no?” Elissa opened up to Amelia on the phone, and Mom relayed certain details to me when I snuck over to visit. I confronted Elissa. She finally admitted to Mom and me that when she told Allen she hated him to touch her, he played on her gullibility, saying he would grow physically ill—even die—if she didn’t allow him to have sex. Then she finally broke down and admitted that Allen was raping her nearly every night, often violently.
“I went to Warren about what he is doing to me,” Elissa said, tears welling in her eyes again. “He said, ‘Go home and follow your Priesthood Head.’ ” Neither Mom nor I was at liberty to tell Elissa otherwise, especially since we were married to the Bishop and the Prophet, respectively. But when I left to go back to my home and was finally alone in my room, I threw up repeatedly, so nauseated at what Allen was doing to my little sister—and Warren’s callous disregard for the young girl’s pain and grief.
Over the next several months, Elissa spent more and more time in Mom’s room at Uncle Fred’s massive house, when she could get away with not being at her husband’s trailer. I visited, too, in order to get away from Warren, Rulon, and the morose thoughts that consumed me at home. It seemed like Warren had started tracking my every move, so I had to slip in and out as surreptitiously as possible. He started having spies at Fred’s check on me, which made me furious. I knew because I would come home and Warren would have “reports” on me—details that other people would report to him about me whenever I left the Jeffses’ estate if I wasn’t with only immediate Jeffs family members with Warren’s knowledge. It wasn’t just at Uncle Fred’s house. Soon the God Squad was watching me around town, noting my comings and goings. I was certainly not the only one the Gestapo-type guards had their eye on, but if I wasn’t where Warren thought I was supposed to be, I would hear about it.
Warren had a penchant for taking away all the things he knew gave a person joy. Soon all of my privileges had been taken. No more horses. No more four-wheeling. Warren had made sure the keepers of my keys to freedom knew to never allow me access again, at the risk of their souls.
Soon he restricted everything else near and dear to my heart, forbidding dances, operettas, plays, and even parades. From the pulpit, Warren demanded stricter rules among the people, like completely forbidding anyone to wear the color red, and reiterating that passion and pleasure in the bedroom were for men only. As holders of the Priesthood their passion was meant to fulfill God’s will. Men could have that, as far as I was concerned, but it felt like Warren was taking every last thing from the community that gave a sense of purpose or joy.
“Times have changed,” Warren said at church. “We as a people must focus on preparing. Father says we are being too light-minded. We must cut down on the laughter. We must restrict traveling for fancy and entertainment. Restrict your camping trips and remind your families that this is a time of focus and preparation.”
I didn’t want to be rebellious, but I was so tired of being controlled. If I could be involved in any activity outside the Jeffses’ home, I would ask my husband for permission. One day I asked Rulon if I could help Christine and some ladies put on a small holiday program for the seniors in the community. Although it contained music, Rulon allowed it, and Warren couldn’t override his decision. Arriving home exhausted from rehearsal one night, Christine went directly to her room, not feeling well. Heading over to check our kitchen schedule, I walked through the living room, where eight of my sister-wives, including Cecilia and Sylvia, were speaking in low voices. It seemed like cause for concern, so I quickly sat down to see what was wrong.
“I don’t like it when he touches me,” Andrea was saying. “And he’s getting really weird and demanding.”
“Yes, he is,” said another, and most of the group nodded. They were obviously talking about Rulon, who had resorted to even more bizarre behavior, if that was possible. Worse, he had lost whatever minor inhibitions he once had, and was behaving in gross and lewd ways—with no regard as to who was around while he did these things.
Sylvia explained that she and another sister-wife had been in a room with Rulon when he had started to undress her, making her go bare all the way down to the waist, and expecting her to be open to his caresses.
“I kept saying, ‘Father, no, no!’ but he kept pushing my hands away,” she said. “When the other wife went to leave, Father wouldn’t let her and demanded she stay in the room as he was doing this to me!” She burst into tears.
“I can’t stand him to touch me,” said Emma, nodding. She was one of Rulon’s newer wives. “He’s so far past childbearing age, how can he be allowed to touch me?”
“What do you think, Becky?” Diana asked.
I stood up abruptly. I had to get out of there.
“I think you guys are going to get in severe trouble! I am going, because I don’t get away with anything.” I left without saying another word. While it was a relief to know that several of my sister-wives felt as I did, I couldn’t take the chance of stirring up more trouble with Warren.
The next day flu and pneumonia hit our house and Fred’s with a vengeance. I was nursing Elissa, who was in my room, and Christine in her own. They were both so sick, I spent most of the morning running back and forth between the kitchen, the bathroom, and their rooms.
“Mother Becky, call 600.” That was Warren’s extension. I reacted with my usual Oh, what did I do now? and dialed from the kitchen phone. Warren’s voice came over the line.
“Mother Becky, I need to see you in my office.”
“Why?” I asked. “I’m in the kitchen.”
“I heard you were involved in a conversation.”
“I didn’t say anything,” I said. “I just came upon the conversation. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“You didn’t say anything?”
“Nope.”
“I want you to come talk to me right now.” He was fishing.
“I can’t. I’m getting some enemas ready for some very sick people,” I replied. It was true, but I hoped that comment would gross him out. “I’m going to have to talk to you later. I don’t have time right now.” I hung up on him, too sleep-deprived to care. Yes, I could have added plenty to the wives’ discussion, but I was determined to be a good Prophet’s wife. I might not have liked what had been dished out on my plate, but I was committed to show God that I would endure it. That day, I left the kitchen, armed with enemas, compresses, and a little more grit and determination to endure. My mother would be so proud.