As I picked up the pieces of my life and chose to be strong for my daughter, we had a sudden surprise. Ben’s seventeen-year-old sister Kristin called him, with desperation and fear in her voice.
“Umm, Ben, I need help. Dad is forcing me to stay here and… to get married. Pllll… please, please come get me,” she whispered. She explained that she had sneaked her mother’s cell phone to call him and didn’t know if she’d be able to again. Ben gave her some hasty instructions, and then hung up to call Wendell to formulate a plan.
Ben and Wendell left immediately for the nine-hour drive to St. George. They didn’t know if their sister had been caught on the phone, but it was her one and only chance to escape a forced marriage, so they didn’t have a choice.
The very next day, Kristin and a few other girls were waiting their turn at the orthodontist when she mentioned to her sisters that she had left something behind and slipped outside. Out of sight of the others, she turned the corner to find Ben and Wendell, and ran to the car. The three of them sped north to Salt Lake City, where they spent the night in a motel far off the beaten path before heading northwest to our home.
Ben and Wendell quickly realized that Kristin had been following Warren’s teachings to the letter, and as a result she had very few communication skills. They had to ask her multiple questions to get a single answer, but what eventually came out was very sobering. Kristin’s father often spoke of how happy she would be when she got married, but she was finally frank with him, telling him she didn’t want to. He responded, “Leaving is not an option,” and squirreled her away in a house of hiding in Las Vegas. Wendell knew all about girls in houses of hiding: their strict security, forced disguises considered “holy” to keep the Priesthood safe, and especially the fear with which each girl was controlled. Kristin couldn’t even decide what to eat on her own without severe mental stress.
Ben called me a couple of times from the road, and while I was grateful to know she was safe, we were all scared that the police might come after them. At seventeen, she was still considered a minor, and we didn’t know what her rights were. I had put in some calls to lawyers we knew. Her existence in Idaho certainly wouldn’t be a secret for long, and we were not about to keep her hidden away as her father had done.
That Saturday, I was home with the kids when a police officer came to our door looking for Kristin, who’d been reported kidnapped. His department had been notified by FLDS leaders that we were prime suspects.
“She’s not in my home,” I said carefully. “You are welcome to come in and take a look.” He stepped inside and looked around thoroughly as we introduced ourselves. I decided it was best to hide nothing from him. As I told him about our family’s background and the call we’d received, his eyes grew large. Then I told him that, indeed, we had picked her up so that she would not be forced to marry.
“Do you think we could call to verify some things?” he asked. We went to the kitchen to call Roger Hoole, who validated what I’d said and gave us contact info for two FBI agents and a U.S. marshal. As it was Easter weekend, the information we had reported was not yet loaded in the system that Kristin was not a typical runaway or a victim of kidnapping, so he had to make further calls. I also called Ben, who let the officer talk to Kristin to verify that she was safe and exactly where she wanted to be. I was grateful to him. On his way out, the officer turned to me.
“If anyone shows up here,” he said, “you let me know right away.” I knew what he meant: if some of the FLDS boys happened to get here before Ben and Wendell did.
When they arrived home, I was both dismayed and joyful. It had been so long since I had seen Kristin, and I was astounded at how much she’d grown, but mentally and emotionally she was stunted, afraid to make any move. Over the next several days Kristin never left my presence except to sleep. I was in for a culture shock as much as she was, thinking of where she should have been at her age, preparing for college and a beautiful life—all of that stolen from her.
As Kristin slowly opened up about her life, I was sobered to hear how quickly things had changed. Before I’d left, Warren had already quashed sports, camping, and entertainment, in addition to music, radio, television, and Internet access (except for businesses). But now, Kristin told me, children couldn’t even play with toys, go outside, or see their friends! They were allowed only to go to school, work, and home, except for church work projects that every child was ordered to participate in on Saturdays, with specific duties to be completed.
It was painfully clear that education had not improved. After Alta Academy had closed in 1999, a couple of schools remained in Short Creek, but most youth were homeschooled with special FLDS packets. While educators had worked diligently to put these packets together, their own knowledge of the outside world was dangerously limited. Kristin was two weeks shy of eighteen, but I could tell it would take at least another two years of study just to get her GED.
It had been Kristin’s daily duty to serve meals to the men at Western Precision, an FLDS company with a government contract to make precision parts for the nation’s defense system. This work brought in massive income to certain families and tithes for the FLDS church. Uncle Wendell, who was Warren’s first counselor, loved fine food, and he hosted grandiose gourmet meals to wine and dine contractors as well as the men who worked there. Young, single FLDS women were brought in to cook and serve the meals—and so that the men could see which girls were becoming available. As Kristin described it, as soon as the girls began to develop breasts, they would be picked off, one by one.
Over the next few days, I showed her pictures of the YFZ in Texas, and the humongous temple rising into the sky.
“What is that?” she inquired.
“You don’t know?” I was incredulous. It dawned on me how secret everything in Texas had remained to the “common” people.
I then showed her pictures of Warren after being caught in his red Cadillac Escalade. She gasped at his shorts and T-shirt, no long underwear in sight.
“Oh my gosh, he’s got a tan!”
“Kristin, he told the people he was in hiding, but then he and Naomi bought leather jackets and leather pants and rented Harley-Davidson motorcycles. He and his entourage went to Disney World. The receipts show he spent the people’s tithing on bathing suits and tanning beds and to braid Naomi’s hair. This is why they don’t want you to use the Internet—this is the truth and it’s all over it!”
Kristin looked into my eyes. “I knew it,” she said softly. “I wouldn’t believe the awful things they said about you… I wouldn’t believe what they said about Ben or Wendell, either. That’s why I called.” I breathed a sigh of relief. Deep down, this girl still had her own intellect and her own voice. It would take some time and struggle, but Kristin was going to be okay.
My young sister-in-law was still settling in when I received an unexpected call from Sheriff Doran. This time, his friendly drawl sounded very serious.
“Becky, I want to run something by you. A domestic violence hotline monitored by Texas Child Protective Services got a call a couple of days ago from someone claiming to be a sixteen-year-old girl named Sarah Barlow or Sarah Jessop—or even Sarah Barlow Jessop. She alleges that her husband has repeatedly raped and beat her, and that she is now pregnant with her second child.”
I gulped and took a deep breath. I thought of all the girls I knew who would be around that age now, including Sherrie.
“The girl said she was living on the YFZ. Now, Becky, know this: regardless of what you have to say, or what your feelings are on the matter, it will not affect our decision as to whether or not we investigate this.” He paused. “I’m only asking, based on your experience and knowledge of the people, do you think there could be any merit to these allegations?”
I was silent for a moment, thinking carefully.
“Sheriff, I can say that when I was growing up, it was not acceptable for men to beat their wives. We did know of situations where it happened. While Rulon Jeffs did not beat his wives, and to my knowledge Warren did not beat his, he condoned Allen’s beating and raping of Elissa, and there were other cases. From what we’ve learned from Wendell, and from Ben’s sister Kristin in just the last ten days, things have deteriorated drastically. Unfortunately, in my estimation, what the caller described could be plausible.”
I told him that Sarah Barlow or Sarah Jessop could refer to a number of different girls, although I honestly couldn’t pinpoint who she was. I knew most of the players in the FLDS, but I certainly didn’t know them all.
“Well, Becky,” he sighed, “there is going to be an investigation on the property. The Texas Rangers will be involved.”
A lightning bolt of fear shot through me. Suddenly it was 1993 again, and I was a frightened eleventh grader watching in horror as Warren brandished a front-page newspaper article about Waco. “Seventy-six people killed—this is nothing. The government will rain down upon us with bullets and with fire, just like they have done to the Branch Davidians.”
Even in my limited knowledge of who had poofed, I knew there were many good people on the YFZ ranch, including innocent women and children. I had to remind myself that I could trust Sheriff Doran, who had taken the time to get to know these people, asked questions, and, most important, listened. Of course he wanted to do his job, but he had no desire to punish all of the people for Warren’s actions.
But Texas Rangers? The name brought to mind visions of rogue, wild cowboys.
“Please,” I asked quietly. “Is there any way I can speak to the rangers who will be entering the property?”
“I don’t know, Becky,” he replied.
“I know. I understand you have a job to do, and my heart aches for this little girl, if this is true. But I know what will be going through the minds of the people on the YFZ.” I paused before blurting out, “These people have not only been preparing for Armageddon, Sheriff; they have been praying for it.”
There was silence on the line. Then: “I’ll see what I can do, Becky.”
The next morning, I did everything I could to put Texas out of my mind as I rushed around getting Kyle and Natalia ready for the day. I took comfort in the daily routine until I received a call from the sheriff shortly after ten a.m.
“Things are heating up,” he said. The NewBridge Family Shelter hotline in San Angelo had received more calls from Sarah saying she was frightened and needed help urgently. She had given a few vague but disturbing details, including that she’d had to hand her baby to another woman to hold while she was being beaten and that she’d been given sedatives. “She sounded drugged this time,” Doran said gravely, and then indicated that it was almost time to go to the ranch to investigate.
“We’re trying to coax some additional information so we can somehow identify and find her,” he said. They had a team poring over the data they were collecting, as well as satellite shots of the ranch.
I pleaded again with him. “If there’s any way I can talk to those men going on the property, let me do so.” Again, he was sympathetic but made no promises. I said a prayer in my heart for the people on both sides of the line. That afternoon, the phone rang again.
“All right, Miss Becky,” he boomed over a speakerphone. “I’m sitting with the officers who will be going in on the ranch. You said you’d like to speak to them. Here’s your chance.”
I felt tongue-tied, but I knew that this was the only opportunity I had to give these officers—whoever they were—a window into the mind-set of the people on that ranch, one that could keep everyone safe.
“This group on the ranch is considered by Warren to be the ‘elite of the elite,’ ” I explained. “They are the upper echelon of ‘God’s people,’ meaning that they are the most obedient. This makes them the most dangerous of all, because they will do whatever their leaders say is God’s will, no matter what.” I paused, praying they would understand the severity I was trying to convey.
“The way to get the upper hand,” I said firmly, “is to go in as quietly and peacefully as possible. They will not expect this of you. They expect you to come in guns blazing, kicking down doors, pillaging and raping the women and children.”
I was met with silence, but I pushed on. “You have to understand that the FLDS people have been deliberately schooled by Warren Jeffs about the tragedy at Waco. We were all told that we would be next!”
There was just one question on the other end: “Are they going to come out, guns blazing at us?”
I thought about it. “They probably do have guns. My dad had a handgun. Several are woodsmen and hunters. I don’t think they will come out at you that way, though, since they believe that God will strike you down. But Yearning for Zion is not just a name; it is a mind-set! To them, you are the end of the world they have been waiting for, especially since Warren Jeffs, their Prophet, has been incarcerated by what they feel is a wicked government. As I told the sheriff, they have been praying for this—hard. Death would be a mercy to them—a way to honorably earn their eternal salvation. Please, please, do not give them what they are looking for. Surprise them with your kindness.”
The sheriff took the phone off speaker.
“Thank you, Becky,” he said gruffly. “Good-bye.”
I put my face in my hands. I could only pray that what I’d said would somehow make a difference.