Rebecca Musser - The Witness Wore Red: The 19th Wife Who Brought Polygamous Cult Leaders to Justice

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This book is dedicated to Kyle and Natalia may you forever know how you have inspired me and taught me the greatest lessons of my life. Every day I love you more and rejoice in your ability to make your own choices. I also dedicate this book to Ben Musser, whom Ive watched become a most incredible and loving father. And to my family, inside and outside the FLDS, who remain forever in my heart.

Rebecca

To BreeAnna, McKenzie, Brent, Baily, and Jessica; each of you are a gift in your unique and very special ways. I kiss your eyes, and I hold you in my heart. Doug, your love makes my soul sing and my heart flutter and gives me wings to fly. And to my mother, I cherish your wisdom and example, and most especially your friendship.

Bridget

It was an unusually temperate day for early spring, and the delicious scent of new beginnings wafted through the open window, filling my body with pure joy. Instead of peering longingly out at the grass and budding crocuses, we were actually going to be allowed outside past our backyard.

While I waited impatiently for my seven siblings to gather to leave, I looked around the shadowy walkout basement we called home. The teak parquet flooring and matching wood paneling made it seem even smaller than it was. My mother had her own room, but the rest of us were stacked in bunk beds in every corner like sardines and forced to play musical beds every time another baby joined our family. My mothers swollen belly made it clear that wed be moving beds again in just a few months. Drawers were built into the undersides of the bunk beds, and we each had one to fill with underwear, socks, and hand-me-down clothing.

Someone passing by our simple two-level redbrick home would likely never guess how many children lived in the basement alone. He would likely be shocked to learn that another large family lived upstairs; the only common denominator between the two families was one man who spent half his nights upstairs with his first wife and children, the other half downstairs with our motherwife number twoand her children. This man was my father.

My bones always felt cold in this house, though the thermostat was set at a normal temperature. The eerie green fluorescent lights strained to brighten the darkest recesses of our rooms, tinting our skin and clothing with strange, shadowy hues. Light didnt seem able to fully penetrate the walls, as hope did not dwell long here.

Today, however, Mom promised time in the sun for all of us. Though she said we were headed for an adventure, she kept the destination a secret. In my excitement, I danced in spinning circles around the room, nearly tripping over my worn, shin-length blue skirt. Mom asked me to quiet down before slipping outside with my siblings, and we furtively piled into Old Blue, our ancient station wagon.

As one of the younger children, I sat on the lap of my oldest sister, Christine. The seven of us watched the blocks roll past, as Mom drove us from our home on Cascade Way, in the Salt Lake City neighborhood of Mount Olympus, straight up into the green foothills of the awe-inspiring Wasatch Mountains.

Soon we all realized our adventure would take place on the grassy knolls behind my school, Eastwood Elementary. It was the same route we used when walking to school, but normally the trek would have been far too risky for all of usand not because of the cars speeding by. We couldnt afford to draw too much attention to ourselves as a family. It wasnt just the honking, the stares, or the derogatory Plygs! bellowed out of windows. We were used to all of that. The danger lay in what the authorities would do if they discovered us. It was why I was a Wilson and not a Wall at my school, and why I could only rarely play with the sweet little girl across the street. If she learned the truth about meabout my brothers and sisters and our family living secretly in the walkout basementwe would risk being discovered.

The little girl was curious about us, though. Everyone was. It wasnt that it was unusual in this region to see large families. Salt Lake City was populated with a majority of prolific Mormons, and the small number of Catholic families often had many kids as well. Still, only a few thousand people in Salt Lake dressed even remotely like us. With the exception of July 24 every year, when the annual parade celebrated our states Mormon pioneer history, we were highly conspicuous in our long-sleeved shirts, girls long prairie dresses and skirts, and exceptionally long braids. Mom said we were special , but it wasnt until I went to kindergarten that I understood we represented a tiny fraction of the population around us. Mainstream Mormonism had given up polygamy in the late 1890s in order to secure statehood for Utah, so we were now the odd ones who hadnt fallen in line.

I hated how kids gawked at us, whispering loudly and pointing us out as if we were a tourist attraction. Sometimes the comments were innocent and simply curious. More often, though, they were intentionally demeaning, and it was frightening to wonder whom they would telland who might put my father in jail and split up our family. So we hid away from the prying eyes of the world.

That was also why our mother chose this place, on the edge of the mountain, where few would see us behind the empty school. We spilled out of the car and onto the grassy knoll, lush and vibrant from the melting snow. Our mother gathered us up on the top hill, where we could look down upon the Salt Lake Valley. Despite the warmth of the sun, I shivered as I looked in the direction of our home below, hidden amid the many houses of the Gentilesthe wicked people who did not believe in Joseph Smith or Jesus Christ. My mothers lap was full with her toddlers and her ever-expanding belly, but I squeezed in as close as I could. It was a rare treat to have her relaxing with us instead of cooking or cleaning or doing incessant laundry after a long day at work at HydraPak Seals, my fathers manufacturing business. I scanned the city; to the north I picked out the capitol, towering on the hill above the downtown buildings that obscured the temple of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saintsthe Mormons who had fallen away from the Work. It was no longer our temple. A deep, unexplainable sadness filled me. We worshipped diligently at church, but our people did not have a temple of our own. Someday in the future, it was foretold, we would build one. But for now, we simply had to endure life. We had to suffer pain and sacrifice, because eternity was what mattered.

Dad so often said, Its not if , but when , the Gentiles will hurt us. It will serve you to remember that always. I put my knees up protectively to my chin as I let my gaze drift across the valley. To my left, the southern part of the city was growing fast. Clumps of business developments and houses spanned nearly where the Salt Lake Valley met the Provo Valley. Our Prophet, whom our people affectionately called Uncle Roy, had dreamed about the destructions. He said they would arrive when the construction of dwellings extended past that area known as the Point of the Mountain. It was a definite sign that the last days were imminent. I wondered how we would ever survive.