That night, I called my mother to arrange to see her once more before we left town.
“Honey, why didn’t you give up your phone at the funeral?” she asked immediately. “Willie told the bishop that you and Elissa were combative and refused to give up your phones.”
“Ask Randall Rohbock, Mom. Then you’ll get the truth.”
The next day we met her at the park again. There to greet us was a large, menacing GMC truck with a lift kit, enormous tires, and tinted windows. I had dealt with the God Squad before, and while I refused to be intimidated, it made Mom very nervous. Then a car pulled up beside the truck, and the driver stared over at us. It was my cousin Russell Allred, a son of one of my uncle Richard’s wives. I felt the fire rise up inside of me again, and despite Mom’s protest, I got out of our car and approached my cousin.
“Is there a problem here, Russell?” I asked.
“W-well, hello, Mother Becky,” he said, stuttering a little.
“I know you were sent here to watch us.”
“No, no,” he started to protest, and I put my hands up.
“Look. We’re just here for a few minutes. Who do we need to talk to in order to placate people? We’re not here to cause trouble.”
“Oh no, Mother Becky, it’s not a problem,” he protested. But as I went back to our car, Russell stayed the entire time.
This time the weather allowed us to take the boys to the playground. As she pushed Kyle in a swing, my mother looked at us mournfully.
“Uncle William sends his apology.”
“I appreciate that, thank you,” I replied. “Is the truck part of the apology?”
“I have something for you,” said Mom, changing the subject. She went to her car and brought back some granola. In the FLDS, when someone dies, people not only bring dinners but also bags of granola or bread to assist the grieving family. We could tell she was trying to soften us, as her conversation turned again to dropping the report, and her nervous behavior made me think that she was under orders.
“Thank you, Mom. Please know there would be no problem if we could just have contact with the girls, just once.”
Resignedly but tenderly, Mom reached her hand out to caress my cheek. “I don’t think your story is completely told,” she whispered. Perhaps Mom hadn’t believed all the vicious, ugly rumors Warren had delivered to the people when I left. “God will be the judge,” she murmured, as much to herself as to me. She then glanced over at the truck and sighed quietly. She reached into another bag and presented each child with a gift.
As we drove away from the park and from Short Creek, Kyle cradled the brown teddy bear she’d given him in his arms and hugged it to himself often, naming it “Gramma.” We didn’t know it was the very last time Kyle or I would see his grandmother Wall.
Over the next several months, I learned what it would take to be a Realtor. Very few people in Idaho knew about my background, but my network of professional associates and friends was growing. I found myself enjoying the fullness of friendships that life had to offer. My communication skills flourished, and for the first time since leaving the FLDS, I felt confident enough to speak with people from all walks of life on a professional, if not personal, basis.
Elissa had been maturing as well, building her life with Lamont and the baby in southern Utah. One day, she called me with news that made me almost drop the phone. She had finally decided she might pursue a case against Warren Jeffs. I knew it took a lot of courage from her. She was still only nineteen, and she had endured many situations I wouldn’t wish on a grown woman. She asked me to accompany her to meet with Joanne Suder in Baltimore, and I agreed. Joanne gently answered many of Elissa’s questions, but Elissa still felt too scared to take action.
On the way back, we discussed the ramifications of testifying, as well as the statute of limitations, which would run out four years after the first offense in 2001 if charges were not pressed. Elissa did wish to press charges, but for several days she couldn’t gather enough courage to pick up the phone. She didn’t want to cause trouble or hurt our mother, and her fear of law enforcement was deeply entrenched.
Finally Cole called her and said bluntly, “Look, the only way we can stop this from happening to Sherrie and Ally is if you press charges.” I volunteered to find out what she would need to do in Washington County to file. Terrified for herself, but hopeful for our sisters, she agreed.
During that summer, Ben and I watched Kyle grow—which was about all we had left in common. It had become clear to me that although my husband had no desire to rejoin a polygamous religion, part of that culture had stayed with him. He confessed to me he wanted to engage in polyamorous relationships. Soon it became apparent that he didn’t want an open marriage, but rather that he wanted to experience more than one woman for himself. Confused and heartbroken, I shut down inside, and questioned my value as a woman who couldn’t keep her husband satisfied. This hit home several days a week when I would arrive home from work to Ben asking if I had found another woman to bring with me. As I looked around me, I saw a pattern in many former FLDS men, as well as men in mainstream society who jumped from mistress to mistress, or one sexually driven relationship to another. I knew it was not just men, but they often played a more active role in that desire.
Was this something women just had to endure? Or was this an unhealthy, clear sign to get out of my marriage? That thought was almost as frightening as leaving the FLDS had been.
One early morning in August 2005, as we were leaving for a trip to visit family in Salt Lake, Ben fell asleep at the wheel and we got into a serious accident. To our relief, Kyle was not injured. I sustained some severe injuries to my knee, and Ben was deeply affected. The young and generally invincible man I’d married no longer seemed that way, and it seemed like a sign to stick beside him. Our marriage rebounded for a brief moment, but by the time Kyle and I went to Coos Bay to perform Christmas Opry, I was ready for a break from Ben’s continued requests for lovers.
In early 2006, my little sister Amelia left the FLDS and her home in Bountiful, British Columbia, and came to live with us in Idaho. Her turmoil was written on her face, and my heart ached for her, not just because of the trauma of leaving the church but because she had young children she was trying to gain custody of. When any woman with children left the FLDS, she didn’t have to take on just her former husband, but the wealthy FLDS church and its seasoned, well-paid lawyers. Amelia had a long road ahead of her.
Despite being on the run, Warren wielded tremendous power, and it felt like he could get away with just about anything. He continued to elude officials, although his brother Seth was caught trying to bring him over $140,000 in cash, multiple cell phones, and letters from loyal followers, all of which were seized by law enforcement. Seth only got his hands slapped and was let off, which made me mad. That $140,000 constituted the tithes of some very hardworking families, and Seth knew it. What did Warren need that kind of money for? I wondered. In April 2006, I read in the paper that Washington County attorney Brock Belnap had charged Warren with two counts of rape as an accomplice, a first-degree felony. Fifth District Court Judge James E. Shumate signed a $50,000 reward for Warren’s arrest. I hoped that would spur someone to turn him in.
A month later, just before Ben and I bought our first home, Warren made the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list. The reward increased from $50,000 to $100,000. Warren’s undercover games, his continued refusal to show up for depositions and court proceedings, and his flagrant disregard for the law had finally made him a prime target for the feds. His reckless abandon spoke volumes of Warren’s desire to be known as a martyr for his people, and unfortunately, it was working. During this time, many thousands of members remained intensely loyal to him, a loyalty only intensified by their distrust of the government.
The search for Warren was heating up in Utah and in Texas. There were times that Sheriff Doran was almost certain Warren was on the ranch. Judge David Doyle and Kathy Mankin did periodic flyovers to check on the secretive sect. I wondered if they ever saw my sisters, but no news ever came in of the girls.
In the early summer months of 2006, Ben’s little brother Wendell was kicked out on orders from Warren, and he came to live with us for a time. Unlike Scott or Ben, Wendell had been a devotee of Warren, secretly entrusted with the care of many of Warren’s wives in houses of hiding across the West. It was in these remote and various shelters that Warren placed massive amounts of his growing harem of wives, away from the law and prying eyes. Wendell told us that Warren had been amassing even more wives than his father had, perhaps more than a hundred. He did know that some of his recent wives were as young as twelve years old. With deep sadness, I listened to stories of the twisted behaviors Warren used to belittle his wives, to pit them against one another so as to dissolve any solidarity. Wendell said that Warren kept them focused on his desires for them: each had to be tiny and rail thin, and ready to give herself as a comfort wife to him at any moment during his underground flight.
Wendell knew about only a small portion of Warren’s activities, as the Prophet deliberately shared with each devotee just one piece of the intricate puzzle he was constructing. I couldn’t be sure about his first and second counselors in the Presidency, but others were clearly left in the dark. Wendell talked of his secretive missions across the United States, following the Prophet’s paranoid and urgent whims. After receiving calls in the middle of the night complete with code words, disguises, and directions, Wendell would leave in the dark, drive to whatever remote location his Prophet requested, and pick up one or more of Warren’s wives to transport covertly from one location to another, and then start all over the next night. Warren had a complex system of technological communications—phone, video, and e-mails with which to give his directives to his people and to his web of personal emissaries like Wendell.
Living at a house in hiding in Colorado, Wendell followed Warren’s orders to the letter, but all the secrecy was taking its toll. As a caretaker, he was required to be a father figure, strong and pure in the sight of the Lord, and not to allow his thoughts to wander in lust. Loyal and obedient to Warren’s every directive, he was caught up in the web of Warren’s self-created drama and mystery. Wendell struggled from the same high level of anxiety that Warren’s wives did. A young man, he also missed the camaraderie of his brothers and friends, but absolute secrecy was essential for the protection of the Prophet.
Once in a while, Wendell would go out for a drink to relax or drown his loneliness. One night after a weeklong trip to Utah and Wyoming, he stopped at a bar for a couple of drinks. A few hours later, he was pulled over and charged with driving under the influence. Although he was released from jail two days later, when he went back to the house in hiding where Warren’s wives resided, a stranger answered the door. His own wife and child were also missing. Frantically he put in a call to his father and to Lyle Jeffs and was coldly told to go home to Short Creek and repent from afar. He quickly discovered that not only had his wife and new baby boy been taken from him, but the bishop of Short Creek had already placed them with another man.
Wendell was not allowed to see them or know their location. All he knew was that his wife had been instructed to burn all photos and letters from him and to treat him as if he were dead. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized just how thoroughly he had been used and manipulated. All he had ever wanted was to bring honor and salvation to his family. He was heartbroken. As I looked at my brother-in-law, I wondered if Warren’s power to destroy families would ever end. Unfortunately, it was just the beginning.