Escape

  “Ruth, the doctor would have told you if he’d seen more than one cancer.”

  “Carolyn, doctors don’t know everything, and I have been fasting and praying to God for the answer about how to get rid of this. God can inspire me with how to care for what is wrong with my body.”

  “But why did you cover all the areas in between those two spots on your nose?” I asked.

  “I thought there might be cancer sores there that I could not see,” Ruth said before marching off to her bedroom, confident that she was curing her cancer with some green gook.

  I was up early the next morning and went into the kitchen to make coffee. Ruth was sitting there, crying, her nose still very green.

  “Ruth, what’s wrong?”

  “I was in so much pain last night I couldn’t sleep. It felt like great big balls of fire were on my nose. It was so bad I got on my knees to pray to God for mercy.”

  “But Ruth, why didn’t you wash it off?”

  “I’m not washing this off. If this is what God wants me to go through to be healed from my cancer, then I will do it with a humble heart.”

  “Ruth, you have to listen to me. This could be damaging your nose if it’s hurting that much. You have to wash it off.” It took some wrangling to get her to agree, but she finally did.

  But when I came home from the office later that afternoon, Ruth’s nose was still green and she said she was in a lot of pain. She had tried to wash off the herbs but still had a green nose and great discomfort.

  I told Ruth that this was an emergency. She had to call her doctor. But that to her was tantamount to admitting defeat and she refused.

  The next morning I found her in the kitchen again crying from pain. I didn’t even try to reason with her. When she still refused to call her doctor I said I was calling 911 and the National Guard if that was what it took to get her medical care.

  Ruth said other people would get into trouble if she went for help. I had no idea what she was talking about and asked her to explain. She went to her room and brought me a big jar of chemicals. I thought it would be empty because she’d made such a large batch, but Ruth told me she’d used only a tiny amount. The jar was so full I realized how toxic these were. “Ruth, you have enough chemicals here to burn off the Statue of Liberty’s nose!”

  I told Ruth that if she hadn’t done something by the time I got home at lunch I was taking action. When I came home Ruth told me she’d called the clinic in Hildale but was told to go to the emergency room. I said I’d take her to the ER in St. George. I knew she would go only if Merril agreed, so I called him in Page.

  Merril said he saw no reason to rush to any conclusion. “You are only assuming that she has damaged her nose.”

  “Merril, I am not assuming anything. I took the jar of chemicals she used to do it with away from her. Plus her nose is beginning to stink.”

  Merril said there was no reason to get bent out of shape about this. He would handle it that evening when he came home.

  What could I do when everyone insisted there was no problem? Nothing. I went back to the office. When Merril came back that night he told Ruth to make an appointment with the dermatologist, even though part of her nose was breaking away from the burned area.

  When she finally returned home she was extremely upset. The dermatologist said she’d burned her nose off with the chemicals, which would continue burning until she neutralized them with vinegar. The doctor had demanded that Ruth tell him who had given her the chemicals. But she refused. The doctor said they could only be obtained illegally, and he’d seen several other cases of severe burns in people who tried to treat their own skin cancer.

  But the dermatologist also told Ruth that she did burn off the cancer along with everything else. He made an emergency appointment for her to see a plastic surgeon in Salt Lake City to begin to reconstruct her nose. It was a cheap job and looked terrible. The side that was burned so badly was very misshapen. I felt bad for her.

  Ruth’s nose was bizarre. But I knew I never would do something so mindless. I’d also continue to take my children to the doctor at the first sign of serious illness, Merril be damned. I felt that in this area, I was immune from Warren’s extremism.

  But it frightened me when I realized how pervasive extremism was becoming in ways I could not have anticipated.

  I was in the kitchen one night making dinner and I overheard Merril’s daughter Merrilyn say, “When Dee took that pig’s heart out it squealed so loud you could hear it for blocks.”

  I shuddered, then left the kitchen to find out what Merrilyn meant. Information was power to me. If I knew what was happening, I felt reasonably confident I could figure out a survival strategy. Merrilyn was talking about the survival classes Warren was holding at his private school in Salt Lake City. Dee Jessop was Ruth and Barbara’s nephew and just a few years older than I was. He’d been making regular trips to Salt Lake from Colorado City and killing animals in front of students. He did this to show students how many different ways an animal could be killed. Very few people talked about what they had seen. I think the children were too traumatized. The parents who knew what was going on also knew to keep their mouths shut. No one stood up to Warren, even then.

  This was happening under Warren’s orders. I knew him well enough to know that there was always a reason behind his actions. He never did things on a whim. But I couldn’t fathom how torturing animals fit into the picture.

  Warren’s power began to be solidified when Uncle Rulon had his first stroke in 1996. The community was informed when he was taken to the hospital, and there was deep concern. After his release, we were told that he had his full mental capacity but was still very ill. He had to be mentally with it in order to remain as the prophet. But since no one was allowed to see him after his stroke, I began to think that something was up. Now I’m convinced that he was kept out of sight because he wasn’t competent enough to continue in his leadership role.

  Throughout 1997, Warren Jeffs moved to solidify his hold on the community. He made it clear that he was speaking for his father. People accepted this because before he got sick, Uncle Rulon had made it evident that Warren spoke for him.

  At one of the priesthood meetings shortly after he’d moved his father to Colorado City, Warren announced that his father had decreed that there would no longer be immorality among his people. Any man who had been involved with immorality would have to leave his family and the community.

  Men were given pamphlets that spelled out the new moral code. All sex in marriage was forbidden except that which was for procreation. Immoral acts for which there could be no forgiveness were also named. Any person who committed these sins, such as fornication and adultery, would have to pay for them with “blood atonement.”

  I had never heard of blood atonement before. Blood atonement is a murder. Warren claimed the ordinance of blood atonement dated back to the beginning of the Mormon Church. But he said that blood atonement could only be practiced in a temple that he said we would build in the near future.

  Dee Jessop began to teach “survival class” in Colorado City. But he upped the ante. Word went out that a survivalist demonstration was going to be held in Cottonwood Park. This was a class open to all, including children. No one suspected anything very dramatic would take place because children had been invited and it was sanctioned by Uncle Fred, who was the FLDS bishop responsible for Colorado City. I didn’t go because I was too busy and I’d heard Merrilyn talk about what Dee had done to animals in Salt Lake. There was no way I’d risk letting my children attend anything done under his auspices.

  Dee decided to demonstrate that a woman could take care of herself if she didn’t have a husband. Since I was a little girl I’d been taught that a time would come among the Lord’s people when all the men would be gone. No explanation was ever given for why that might happen. But I remember being told that men would be so scarce that if a child ever saw one she’d go running home to her mother screaming because it would have
been such an unusual sight. So maybe Dee was trying to play into that kind of scenario.

  Dee’s class drew a large audience of parents and children. No one suspected anything when they first got to the park. Dee’s wife was tying down a cow with ropes. But once the cow was restrained, she took out a handsaw and began sawing off the cow’s head.

  The cow’s screams sounded like a woman’s. Children shrieked in terror. Those closest to the cow were sprayed by its blood. Stunned parents grabbed their kids and started to run away. Some stayed, frozen in shock and unable to move.

  People were furious. Everyone was talking about it. People were disgusted by what Dee had done and blamed him. No one dared criticize Warren Jeffs or Uncle Fred. The community was united against Dee alone and wanted to see him slammed.

  That happened a few months later in a way none of us expected.

  Ruth was in the throes of a breakdown. She’d stopped sleeping and was close to spinning completely out of control. Her oldest daughter, Rebecca, came home for the weekend to care for her. Merril was ignoring her condition, as he usually did.

  By Monday morning, Ruth was babbling nonstop about being late. She said she was supposed to play her accordion at the Monday church meeting. She was parked in Merril’s office, waiting for him. He came in and put on his shoes, and when he sized up Ruth he told her she wasn’t well enough to perform.

  Ruth said she couldn’t neglect her duties.

  “Calm down, Ruthie. You know your duties are to your husband,” Merril said.

  Ruth waited until Merril left the office with Tammy and several of his children. Then she grabbed her accordion and took off.

  I was worried about her because she was so unstable, and went to find Merril. I told him she’d escaped. “Oh, don’t worry. She’ll be heading for the meetinghouse and we’ll pick her up along the way.”

  Dee Jessop was Ruth’s nephew. He saw her running crazily on the road and stopped his truck. He told Ruth to get in and he’d take her home. Ruth wanted nothing to do with him.

  He did what all of us knew never to do: touch Ruth when she was crazy.

  Ruth ripped into him, smashing him in the face with her accordion. She kicked him everywhere her legs could fly. Cars coming down the road slowed down to watch.

  But no one intervened. Most of us in the community felt that Ruth could not have picked a better person to brutalize. When Dee managed to break free, he got into his truck and drove home. The rest of us felt that justice had been served.

  But Ruth continued on her downward spiral. Word reached Uncle Rulon that she was out of control, and he sent Merrilyn to help take care of her.

  But Merrilyn hated being in charge of her mother. One morning Tammy came down for breakfast and heard Ruth screaming like a child. She walked into Merril’s office and saw Merrilyn beating her mother. Ruth finally sank into the corner of the office, sobbing and hugging herself.

  Tammy was shocked. “Why are you slapping your mother like that?”

  Merrilyn shrugged. “That’s the way Father handled her ever since I was a little girl. When she gets out of control, he beats the hell out of her until she comes to her senses.”

  Ruth was finally hospitalized for two weeks.

  Patrick’s Abuse

  One of the moments I’d do over in my life if I could is this: Patrick, my four-year-old son, was trying to wake me up at ten-thirty one weekend night. Merril had called family prayers and we were all to assemble upstairs in the living room. One of his older children had tried to rouse me from sleep. When that failed, he sent Patrick.

  “Mother, Father wants you to come pray,” Patrick said. I rolled over and said that I was too tired. Merrilee was only a few weeks old and I still had not recovered from her birth. I was so depleted and wiped out that I’d fallen into bed after tucking in my children. But apparently Merril had called for prayers, and all my sleeping children were dragged from their beds. I was sick from exhaustion and told Patrick I could not get out of bed to pray.

  There had been a period of relative stability in our home after Merril’s heart attack. Barbara continued to cause problems for the five other wives, but we were making a determined effort not to engage with her in hopes of minimizing stress at home while Merril recuperated. After a few weeks this strategy seemed to set Barbara off. She thrived on tension and on reporting on our shortcomings to Merril.

  To stir up trouble, Barbara encouraged the children to act up to get us to respond abusively. One day I lost it with several of Merril’s daughters. They’d been making my life miserable by being argumentative and resistant. When I overheard them acting shocked about a girl who was being bullied and sent dog food as a symbol of her worth, I lit into them.

  “You girls are such hypocrites after the way that every one of you has been treating the mothers in this family. If any of you allowed me as much respect as dog food, I would be overjoyed.” After I said that, I walked across the room and said, “I think I’m going to throw up. Every one of you is a self-righteous, disgusting little hypocrite.”

  The room began boiling with anger. I had spoken the truth and they knew it. But standing up to abuse in Merril’s family threatened the power structure and was unacceptable to Barbara. I knew I would be disciplined. But I didn’t care.

  I didn’t know she would target Patrick.

  I never knew what happened that night until three and a half years after our escape. I was driving Patrick home from karate when his story spilled out and he told me about the night he’d tried to wake me up for prayers.

  When Patrick returned to the living room, he told Merril that I was too tired to come to prayers. Barbara became enraged. The family was on their knees in the living room. My refusal to come caused something of a commotion. Patrick’s older brothers began questioning him about my absence.

  Patrick remembered Merril saying something to Barbara, who then came over and asked him to follow her. He thought they were going to my room, but she took him to a room across the hall and shut the door.

  Barbara began drilling Patrick with question after question about me. He tried to answer her questions, but she still slapped him. He started crying, which infuriated her even more. Then she picked him up and threw him several feet across the floor. He was shaking visibly when Barbara came and grabbed him and threw him into the metal bars at the foot of the bed. The first blow knocked the air out of him and he said it was hard to breathe. She slammed him into the bed again and again. He was crumpled in a heap. When he made an effort to stand, Barbara, who weighed nearly two hundred pounds, kicked him in the stomach. Patrick was not unconscious, but he couldn’t breathe at all for a few frightening moments.

  Patrick was still shaking. Barbara said to him, “Patrick, hush up. If you tell anyone what I have done to you, it will be far worse the next time.” Patrick was sobbing uncontrollably. Barbara grabbed his face. “Patrick, look at me. I don’t want you telling Merril or your mother about this. Do you understand?” Barbara shook him again. Patrick finally said, “Okay, okay, I won’t tell anyone.”

  Barbara sat in the room with him, handed him a Kleenex, and told him to blow his nose. She didn’t touch him again. Patrick feared that if he kept crying, she’d keep hitting him. He stopped, but he could not stop shaking. Barbara told him to return with her to prayers.

  Prayers were over. But Merril and a few wives and children were in the living room. One of the other children said, “Patrick, what did she do to you?”

  Merril jumped in and told Patrick to go to bed.

  Patrick came into my room. The lights were off and I was asleep. I had taught him how to put my La-Z-Boy chair into a reclining position. He climbed into the chair and sobbed himself to sleep.

  Patrick was too afraid to awaken me or tell me about the attack the next morning. It would take nine years before he was able to speak about what happened—nine years.

  The next morning I was getting Patrick ready for his bath. I saw bruises all over his back, bottom, and legs.

/>   “Patrick, what happened to you? Who did this to you?”

  Patrick’s face went white with fear. “Nothing, Mama, nothing happened to me.”

  “Patrick, someone hurt you and I want to know who it is.”

  “Mama, I promise that nobody hurt me. I was playing with Parley and Johnson and we were roughing around. No one was supposed to get hurt.”

  I knew he was lying. I could see how traumatized he was, but I didn’t want to push him into telling me the truth. I thought someone might have hurt him while I had been at work.

  There were few options, all bad. If I went to Merril and complained, he would scold me and say nothing had happened. I did not want to get trapped into playing someone’s sick game—my child was hurt, and if I told Merril and he didn’t believe me, my child could be hurt again, perhaps even more, in retaliation for my protest. Whoever had hurt Patrick might hurt him even more.

  I couldn’t go to the police. The community police were all members of the FLDS. They would never investigate. The police would tell me to go home and be obedient to my husband. Merril was too powerful in the FLDS. No local police officer would ever make waves against him.

  I could report the abuse to state child protection agencies in Utah or Arizona, but they had poor track records of protecting women and children in Colorado City. Victims routinely got sent back to perpetrators.

  I decided my preschoolers were never staying at home again without me. Though my children could see how upset I was that morning, I told them it was a special day. We were going to breakfast and then to see their grandmother. I would buy them some new books and papers because from now on, they’d be coming to work with me.