Between the seesaw of the trial docket and Natalia’s health, I was swamped with demands and looming deadlines that I had to be emotionally and physically prepared for. Even though I officially had no place to call home, I wouldn’t let anything stop me from getting Natalia the care she needed this time.
Just before Thanksgiving, Natalia underwent her first major surgery at Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake, which had accepted her into a special program. Dr. Siddiqi and his team expertly inserted balloon expanders in her forehead and behind her right ear. Natalia woke with a terrible headache and lay whimpering in my arms for days. As soon as she had healed enough to overcome the pain, she had to return to the hospital each week for painful new injections, for two months straight.
It was brutal to leave her and Kyle once again to go back to Texas for Allan Eugene Keate’s trial in the first week of December 2009. Allan’s wife Nora had been my eighth-grade teacher, and as I sat in the witness stand I was frankly disgusted as Allan allowed his lawyer to deny his marriages and his children. He had shamed his young victim—thirty-eight years his junior—before the Prophet when she was unwilling to submit to him sexually. In addition, Allan had proffered three of his own teenage daughters for marriage to other older FLDS Priesthood men of high rank. This included Veda, who had married Warren when she was only fourteen. The jury found Allan guilty of child sexual assault, sentencing him to thirty-three years in prison.
In early January 2010, Natalia underwent her biggest surgery yet, which cut most of the black congenital nevus away. Diana graciously put us up at her home in Salt Lake so I could spend as much recovery time with Natalia as possible. I was scheduled to fly out for Mike Emack’s trial two weeks after the surgery, and the thought of leaving my baby in this tender condition tore at me. She clung to my neck as I carried her out to the car from Primary Children’s Medical Center. All I wanted was to hold and comfort her. I had finally buckled my precious daughter in her car seat when Wes called.
“Becky, you’re off the hook for this one. Mike Emack’s trial won’t be happening. He pled no contest to sexual assault of a child, and Judge Walther just found him guilty. He was sentenced to seven years in prison.” Later Mike would also plead guilty to bigamy, sentenced to serve seven years concurrent to this one. The entire way to Diana’s house, I could not hold back the tears of relief.
As Natalia healed, it was delightful to watch her look at herself in the mirror in great wonder. She still only had one eyebrow, which few people noticed, since she was so very blonde. One day my little diva noticed me using an eyebrow pencil. “Mommy,” she asked, “you draw eyebrow me?” I took my brow liner and lightly sketched one in for her. She looked at herself severely from side to side. Abruptly she erupted into a torrent of giggles. She hugged me and ran from room to room, mirror to mirror. Giggles followed her—both hers and mine.
In early March, I returned to San Angelo, to testify against my cousin Merrill Leroy (Roy) Jessop, who faced charges of sexual assault of a child. At thirty-five, Roy was very close in age to me and was one of Warren’s fiercest supporters. His arrogant treatment of FLDS women, including shaming young wives before the Prophet if they did not reach a certain level of submission—caused the jury to find him guilty and hand him a seventy-five-year sentence.
My father called, clearly upset. “Roy’s sentence is proof that the government is persecuting the people and the church!” he cried. With all media banned in Short Creek, he and other members had been hand-fed these stories by their leaders.
“Dad, it’s far different than what you’re being told. Roy’s letters to Warren were sick. Come and see the evidence for yourself.”
That was the last I heard from my dad for several long months. He and so many others thought the evidence was planted to disparage the FLDS.
Patrice’s brother Joe told me, “The government planted those things. They doctored pictures and documents.”
“You all need to get over yourselves,” I replied. “Do you really think they would spend millions of dollars just to trick a few thousand people?” Joe couldn’t answer, nor could he accept what I had to say about it, either.
In April, Lehi Barlow Jeffs, my old schoolmate and Warren’s nephew, pled no contest to sexual assault of a child and bigamy. Judge Walther sentenced him to eight years for each offense, to be served concurrently.
I’d barely had time to breathe during the past six months. Lehi’s plea deals meant two glorious months of respite before Natalia’s next surgery, which would be relatively minor in comparison. That was good, because I wasn’t sure that Natalia, Kyle, or I could take much more. I decided to bring Kyle with me for the next trial so we could spend time together. I wished the worst of the trials was over, too, but it was the exact opposite.
In June I had to testify against Abram Harker Jeffs, Warren’s brother and my “son,” who was a few years my senior. Abe was convicted of sexual assault of a fifteen-year-old and bigamy. In his fervor to please the Prophet, he’d performed Warren’s dirty work, such as pulling a barely weaned infant from an “unworthy” mother in Short Creek to bring the babe to a “worthier” woman at the YFZ. The jury sentenced him to seventeen years and a $10,000 fine for sexual assault of a child, which was much lighter than Roy’s seventy-five-year sentence. His lawyer breathed an audible sigh of relief upon hearing the verdict.
Every single defense up to this point rested heavily on declaring evidence from the raid inadmissible. The search warrant was scrutinized every which way from Sunday, but Walther upheld it, as did other local judges.
Upon our return home, my sister Amelia offered up her house to my brother Jordan and me to rent. Finally, a place to call our own! For an entire year, I had felt like I was always in someone’s way. Now, life felt like it was looking up.
In true fashion of the roller coaster called my life, I got a call at the end of July 2010 from a very upset Elissa. Warren’s verdicts in Utah had been overturned due to faulty jury charges. It would have been so easy to get angry and give up! It seemed Warren could get away with everything. Loyal FLDS members would triumphantly proclaim that God had overcome the proud and wicked, that this was somehow a sign of Warren’s innocence.
I reminded myself that my sisters and I had testified truthfully and we could walk away knowing that our contribution had been powerful, despite the eventual outcome. Warren wouldn’t be let go—at least not immediately. Between charges in Arizona and those in Texas, he was sure to be behind bars for quite some time.
As if the trials and surgeries were not enough, at the end of August I was forced into a grueling deposition regarding Warren’s legal issues in Arizona. They were fishing for more information about Texas, since Warren’s and Uncle Wendell’s trials were around the corner. I showed up in red, my power words on my hand. I was questioned by Jim Bradshaw, one of the most callous defense attorneys I had ever faced. Piccarreta had prepared me for this, and while Bradshaw didn’t know it, his behavior prepared me to be a stronger, more confident witness in Texas courtrooms.
In the most miraculous development, Ben and I started getting along again. We had both realized that Kyle’s and Natalia’s well-being far outweighed any differences between us. I watched him step up in accountability and in his relationships with our children in ways he never had before. I think he saw positive changes in me, too. Although we moved forward with divorce proceedings, we were able to become great friends again and focused on being great partners in raising our children. Ben could never understand my commitment to the trials, but he began working with my schedule instead of against it, for which I am still grateful.
In October I prepared for Keith Dutson Jr.’s trial. It would be tough. I had adored him and his family, but it was obvious that like Abram, Keith had changed and let his desire to please the Prophet supersede his decency. He’d been twenty to his victim’s fifteen, which wasn’t as shocking as some of the older leaders’ age differences. However, his domineering behavior reared its ugly head when his wives did not submit to him sexually.
The defense ridiculed me and questioned my morals at every trial, but Keith’s lawyer, Stephanie Goodman, was particularly disparaging, insinuating that my greeting hugs to Deputy George Arispe and some Texas Rangers constituted adultery.
“Miss Musser, isn’t it true that it was your inappropriate relationship with law enforcement that caused your divorce?” I had to breathe and deliberately look at the words on my hand before Eric sprang from his seat and objected rigorously to her smear tactic. The jury was instructed to ignore her comment.
In closing arguments, Eric boldly informed jurors that FLDS ways were simply too ingrained in Keith to ignore.
“We’re not talking in the abstract about what someone believes,” Eric said. “We’re talking about what this man believes… It’s not just that the seed was planted… It sprouted.”
The jury found Keith guilty of sexual assault of a child. He was sentenced to six years and a fine of $10,000 for sexual assault of a child. Eric’s poignant statement rang true in my ears. The Keith I once knew no longer existed. He had changed in a culture that now worshipped and honored criminal behaviors modeled by their Prophet—behaviors Keith had aspired to. In fact, one could argue that given that culture, the only difference between a Keith Dutson Jr. and a Merrill Jessop or even a Warren Jeffs was… time.
Warren’s appearance in Texas was fast approaching. In February 2011, Warren excommunicated unprecedented thousands of followers, including my father, who e-mailed me in the midst of his great sadness. Warren had even excommunicated his most vocal follower, Willie Jessop. Had the tables been turned on the man who used to harass and bully others in the name of the Prophet?
Warren’s lawyers fought hard to avoid extradition, but he was forced to return to Texas accompanied by Nick and Wes. Warren knew he was in trouble: the bad acts prosecutors continued to amass against him were breathtaking.
Through their law enforcement connections, Wes and Nick had been keeping an eye on Warren. They told me he had been busy during his long incarceration. Besides his self-imposed fasts and suicidal tendencies, there was a long period where he masturbated deliberately in front of surveillance cameras as many as fifteen times a day. I speculated at that time he was going for an insanity plea. Lately, however, he had been busy writing harsh revelations from God. Having survived beyond his humble “I’m not the Prophet” stage, he had fully claimed the mantle of church leader again. As the FLDS Prophet, he sent a “Warning to the Nations” in a revelation for President Barack Obama, signed by several hundred followers, demanding his release. It was full of thinly veiled and outright threats. Warren was getting desperate to hide the extent of his depravity from the world—especially from his own people.
After all these years, Warren still seemed to have control over my schedule, and I was sick of it. Within six months, he fired seven lawyers to delay trial. As shrewd as Judge Walther was in allowing Warren his rights, she was growing tired of his antics, too. Despite a childhood disease that left her limping, her legs in braces, Walther was a force to be reckoned with, and he knew it. Warren sought to have her recused several times over. It didn’t work. I found it quite fitting that Warren was facing a powerful woman who would not back down from him.
The days leading up to Warren’s trial were like a three-ring circus. He retained two new high-powered attorneys, but after the jury was selected and seated, he pulled another desperate move and invoked the right to represent himself.
Walther was very careful to advise against it, but he wouldn’t listen. The no-nonsense judge was far more accommodating than she would normally be, not giving Warren any viable excuse to have her recused or to file a successful appeal.
Eric Nichols called me after a few days of whipping through witness after witness, telling me to be prepared to get there quickly. The trial that had taken three years to happen was proceeding at lightning speed. I flew into San Angelo right away and was escorted to a very large but secluded game ranch. From all indications, by what I was hearing from the courthouse, first it seemed like I might testify immediately, since Warren was making no objections and no comments on his own behalf.
The prosecution was an hour into Friday’s case before Warren stirred at all, when, I was told, he suddenly rose from his chair during the prosecution’s announcements of his very young wives’ and children’s birthdates from the YFZ records.
For nearly an hour, Warren apparently preached on the background of polygamy and the Lord’s sanctioning of it. He argued that the FLDS way of life should be protected under religious freedom, before ending with an “Amen.” This type of diatribe was not normally allowed in Walther’s orderly courtroom, but she let him ramble since he’d given no opening statement.
From that moment, the court watched Warren curiously. He apparently objected when he shouldn’t have, and kept eerily silent when he should have spoken. By early Monday morning, the courtroom was packed when I arrived under guard. I still didn’t know if I would testify that day or not, but before court began for the morning I stepped into the gallery briefly. Warren had less than a handful of supporters, including his brother Lyle, who was supplying him with supporting documents. Under order, Lyle and other loyalists left the courtroom anytime “sacred records” regarding the Priesthood or the temple were revealed. This time Willie Jessop remained with his arms folded across his burly chest and a look of disgust upon his face. Reporters, authors, and artists kept furious pens to paper. I saw many others who had come, feeling a personal stake in what was taking place with the YFZ, like Bitsy Stone, who had opened her home to social workers from outside the region during the raid and custody battle; and Carmen Dusek, who had helped put the children’s legal team together and at one point had represented young Merrianne. Nick Hanna’s wife and other law enforcement spouses came to see the man who had kept their loved ones from home for so long. Curious friends and neighbors whose churches had helped to feed and clothe the disenfranchised FLDS members during the raid joined trial fanatics who had traveled halfway across the country to be part of the next most exciting case since Casey Anthony’s trial.
Hours into the day, my security informed me that Warren had attempted again to have the judge recused. That was not shocking, but I was appalled at what Warren had written in his motion. First, reminding everyone that he was the “holy and noble authority on earth,” he demanded, “Let Barbara Walthers [sic] be of a humbling to know I have sent a crippling disease upon her which shall take her life soon.” I was infuriated that he would use the judge’s childhood disease as his own crutch! If any of his people were disobedient enough to watch the news, he was counting on them to glorify her leg braces as the crippling God was sending for not setting him free. Warren was not crazy—but rather diabolically brilliant and dangerous.
Another member of my security detail observed the courtroom for a while and reported to me that Judge Walther sounded like she was talking to a two-year-old. “Mr. Jeffs, please take your seat.” “Please sit down, Mr. Jeffs.” “Mr. Jeffs, you must confine your comments to the appropriate times.” Warren had slowed the process down yet again, and I went back out to the ranch until the following Monday, when I’d finally be facing Warren Jeffs once again in the courtroom.