But while polygamy helped unite the family initially, my grandmothers and their husband quit the FLDS after their children were nearly raised. They couldn’t stand the abusive practices—and this was decades before Warren Jeffs came to power. Once they quit, they rejected every aspect of the mainstream Mormon Church, too. But because they couldn’t bear the thought of living apart, the three remained together in a loving relationship until they died. (I assume that like most polygamists, each woman had a separate intimate relationship with her husband.)
I didn’t know my grandmothers until after they’d left the FLDS. My father was the only son who stayed behind, and unfortunately this rupture caused tension and strain in the family. My father’s parents were hurt when he distanced himself from those who had left.
Even though I didn’t see a lot of my grandmothers, they shaped my life in important ways. Gwen was the more nurturing sister. She had been given two small goats when she was young and over a period of years raised a small herd. This enabled her to always provide milk for her family. She taught me how to milk a goat, taking my hand and showing me exactly how to pull and squeeze to release the milk. She also taught me how to feed and care for the goat after the milking was finished. Today Grandma Gwen would be making chèvre and selling it at farmers’ markets.
My two grandmothers were a huge part of all our birthday parties. (Birthdays were still celebrated when I was growing up; they were later halted as the FLDS became more extreme.) Grandma Gwen would always bring us birthday pennies. We would get one penny for each member of the family multiplied by the new age you were. When I was five, I got ninety pennies. As I counted out my mountain of pennies, I felt like the richest little girl in the world.
Grandmother Gwen kept the home fires burning with her birthday pennies and her goats. Grandma Florence was passionate about her independence and felt women needed to be much more than just obedient to their husbands. She used to say that every woman should own her own backhoe. This became a mantra repeated throughout my childhood. Grandma Florence worked most of her life as a schoolteacher. Like me, she adored teaching but knew it would never create adequate financial independence for her. She saved her money and bought a backhoe, which she used to generate more income on weekends, digging out yards and driveways for people in the community. Instead of despairing about her small teacher’s salary, Florence found a way to compensate for its limitations. She always focused on what she could do, not on what she couldn’t.
Grandma Florence knew that unless she had a way to generate income, she could never be completely independent. Her backhoe guaranteed that no one could take her independence away. She did turn over some of her money, though not all, to her husband, but unlike most men in the FLDS, he kept track of it and later in life paid it all back, right down to the last penny. When I was young, I took her advice about backhoes quite literally—and it made me skeptical. If every woman had this implement, I thought, the suburbs would have to be a lot bigger, and women who lived in apartment buildings would have nowhere to park their backhoes. But after I fled the FLDS, I realized how valuable this concept was.
My grandmothers had been dead for years before I escaped, but if they’d been alive, they would have been outraged by my marriage to Merril. I hadn’t thought of them much in the years leading up to my escape because I was so stressed out with everything else. But a housing crisis brought my grandmothers back into my thoughts in a dramatic way. During the first three years after I left the FLDS, I was always in a financially precarious situation. Each month I’d try to just make it to the next, and somehow I did. But after paying the rent and buying gas to get the kids to school, I often had nothing left to pay my utilities.
As winter drew near in 2005, I started to panic. Heating the trailer in the winter was always expensive. I had to keep the heat turned up high for Harrison, because I couldn’t risk his catching a cold. Every time any kind of work came through or I managed to earn a little money, I hid it so I wouldn’t be tempted to spend it. I hoarded my money and built an emergency fund. During the year I tried to save enough to ensure that we’d have heat in the winter. But in fall 2005 my emergency reserve was depleted. We were living on food stamps. Sometimes I’d find a little money here and there, but I knew I wouldn’t have enough for my big winter utility bills.
One night both my grandmothers, Florence and Gwen, came to me in a dream. They were very concerned and working desperately to find a way for me to protect my children. Even though I was miserable, I could feel how worried and agitated they were about my family. They both appeared to be alive but living in a different dimension.
For three years I’d been on a waiting list for housing or rental assistance. Most women with children can qualify for low-income housing in a matter of months. I couldn’t because of the size of my family. There were nine of us, and that was more than the number allowed in a three-bedroom apartment, which was the largest low-income housing available. My only recourse was Section Eight, a housing assistance program that helps pay the rent for qualified housing. Normally it took three years before anything became available; now, because a moratorium was in effect, the minimum wait was five years. That’s a long way off when you’re in a crisis.
Everyone I spoke with said that until my name moved up on the list, nothing could happen. I was not optimistic. I gave up all hope of ever getting Section Eight.
In the dream my grandmothers were talking to each other about how upset they were about my situation. They seemed determined to find the resources to help me.
The dream was both precise and imprecise. But when I awoke, I had a strong sense of peace and knew everything was going to be okay. Something had shifted. I didn’t know how things were going to change, but I felt that they would.
I didn’t tell anyone about the dream. But somehow, three weeks later, I was approved for Section Eight housing. My trailer qualified, so I didn’t even have to move. Every month I received funds to help pay the rent. It was a miracle—literally, a dream come true!
I felt like my grandmothers, Gwen and Florence, had somehow blessed me with this great gift. I began to think about them on a daily basis, a lot more than I had in years. I remembered the firmness of my tiny hand in Gwen’s as she taught me to milk and care for her goats. I thought of Florence and her backhoe. With the housing assistance, I could keep my family warm, safe, and fed. It seemed like it was time to find my backhoe. With one of those, I might reach my goal of getting off welfare.
The problem with state assistance was that for every dollar I earned, I lost two in benefits. It was going to be impossible for me to break free incrementally. I had to find a way to make enough money to get off welfare in one fell swoop. To really stabilize my life, I needed to be able to put a down payment on a house.
My backhoe, I realized, could be my story itself. Several people who had heard me speak about the life I’d fled suggested that I write a book. It would be a job that I could do on my own time. If I didn’t have time during the day, I could work throughout the night. The project could adapt to the crazy demands of my daily schedule with eight children in five schools, plus karate, counseling, and sports.
I decided to carve out a small slot of time every day and start putting words on paper. Writing and publishing Escape did so much more than end my dependence on welfare. It gave me back my dignity on a level far beyond what I had ever thought possible. It gave birth to my life as an advocate for those trapped in polygamy and other degrading situations.
Escape was the backhoe that my grandmother Florence thought every woman should own in order to claim the right to independence and dignity.
Five years after fleeing the FLDS, I was able to make a down payment on a house in a suburb of Salt Lake City. My father had thirty-six children, and I was the first of his daughters ever to own her own home. No one in the FLDS, man or woman, is allowed to own their own home. It was one of the biggest moments of my life. I had accomplished something that even my father had been prevente
d from doing.
Merril’s refusal to pay child support had pushed me into financial ruin. I didn’t know how I would ever be able to dig myself out. Buying my house was a triumph. I was able to do it because of my book advance and because Brian was willing to cosign on my mortgage. It was a moment of genuine liberation from the mental and financial mess Merril had tried to make of my life.
Ironically, none of this might have happened if Merril had paid me child support. Had he shown more decency in fulfilling his obligations as a father, I probably would never have written Escape. I didn’t write it to get even. I had no guarantee that the book would sell. If Merril had helped me pay off our debts and had supported our children, then writing the book would have been incredibly risky, since he would have cut off my support. I would never have risked losing it.
So in the end I’m almost grateful that he refused to meet his responsibilities. If he had done the honorable thing, I would still be chained to him. His lack of honor left me with nothing to lose by writing a book—and maybe something to gain.
I never could have imagined that Escape would spend twelve weeks on the New York Times best-seller list. I didn’t know how to dream that big.
My Fight for Justice
Brian and I slept a little later than we’d planned. The night before, we’d stayed up late enjoying a real Texas pit barbecue at a party held in our honor by several members of CASA, the Court Appointed Special Advocates who worked with the children in the aftermath of the raid on the YFZ Ranch. I’d contacted CASA and made plans to get together when I found out that I was coming to San Angelo to meet Merril in court.
Merril had never paid a dime in child support. He was legally required to do so and had plenty of money, but after I won custody, I lacked the funds to pursue it. My attorney in the custody case advised me against going after Merril for support, because then he would hit back even harder for custody. She felt, as I did, that my first priority was keeping my children safe.
But after six years I finally wised up. As the leader of the Eldorado compound, Merril was one of the most powerful men in the FLDS. The FLDS was spending tens of thousands of dollars to assemble a team of high-priced attorneys to defend it in the criminal cases that resulted from the Texas raid. I realized that a river of money was still flowing into the cult.
Once I decided to move forward, my case proceeded quickly. We went to final trial in less than six months. I was sure that the FLDS would find a way to drag the case out for years. I was represented by Natalie Malonis, a lawyer I met when we were both guests on Nancy Grace. Natalie had been representing one of the children who had been taken from the ranch and was initially supportive of the FLDS. After our segment was over, we kept talking on the phone (we lived in different locations), and we continued the conversation in the weeks ahead. As Natalie began to understand how evil the FLDS really is, she became outraged. When she heard that Merril had never paid any child support, we discussed taking him to court. As an expert in family law, Natalie felt I had a strong case.
I was concerned that we were not adequately prepared for trial. Natalie is a tough and talented lawyer, but the case had come together with astonishing speed. We’d worked as hard as we could to mount our case, but I wondered if we were ready for the curve balls the FLDS would inevitably throw.
Brian and I were enjoying a leisurely morning before going to court when the telephone rang. Paulette Schell, a member of the CASA team whose home we were staying in, was speaking fast. She had gone into the office early.
“Three gunshots were fired around Debra’s house at six-thirty this morning,” she said. “A few minutes later three shots were fired near Angie Voss’s house.”
I was speechless. The first two nights Brian and I were in town, we had stayed at Debra Brown’s house. Debra was the executive director of CASA, and she and I had become friends during the time the state had the FLDS children in custody. And Angie Voss, the lead child abuse investigator for the state, had told Judge Walther that there were serious problems on the YFZ Ranch. Angie has a stellar reputation, and Judge Walther knew that when she said there was a problem, it was for real. None of us thought it was a coincidence that gunshots were fired near the homes of two women who had been in the forefront of the effort to protect the FLDS children. I had been in town for three days, and it was certainly possible that the FLDS knew where I’d been staying.
“An eyewitness saw the truck that fired the shots,” Paulette continued. “It was a white Ford F150 pickup with two people in the front of the cab. The police have been notified, and they found some of the casings from the gun that was used.”
When Natalie learned about the gunshots, she alerted a Texas Ranger, who arranged for all of us to be escorted to court by state troopers. She and I both felt the FLDS was acting out more than anything else, but it was still wise to take precautions.
Merril had tried to have the case heard in Utah, where I lived. It was his best shot for evading justice because if I won, Utah would have no way to enforce its judgment against him—he and his assets were in Texas. Natalie felt that my odds were better in Texas because the court there had physical jurisdiction over him and could force him to pay or seize his assets, which were enmeshed with the ranch.
The case opened with Merril’s attorney, Amy Hennington, arguing that Texas lacked jurisdiction over the case. Natalie argued that it had jurisdiction. The rear of the courtroom was filled with seven or eight FLDS men. They were snickering and acting like this was all a big joke. As I already knew from past observation, Judge Walther is not one to be intimidated. Confident in her right to hear the case, she ordered it to get under way.
Natalie called her first witness to the stand. Nick Hanna was one of the Texas Rangers who’d been involved in the raid. She asked him to authenticate some of the FLDS records that had been seized.
The second witness was Merril Jessop, who looked older and frailer since I’d last seen him in court, five years earlier. He answered almost every question by saying he couldn’t remember, but this response seemed to amuse him because as he feigned forgetfulness, he could barely contain his smile. He claimed that he had no bank account, no ATM card, and no income beyond his monthly thousand-dollar Social Security check.
Natalie questioned him about the businesses he’d been involved in. He couldn’t remember much about any of them until Natalie mentioned a company he once owned, giving the wrong address. Merril said he couldn’t remember the company but then corrected her about its address. His credibility was disintegrating.
By then Judge Walther was steeped in FLDS culture; she’d presided over all the cases involving the custody of the children seized from the YFZ Ranch. Merril’s professed inability to remember anything about anything he’d ever done seemed not to surprise her in the least. Merril kept looking at me with a slick smile that said he was going to get away with what he was doing.
I wasn’t intimidated. After living outside the FLDS for more than six years, I knew far better than he did that the court system takes child support very seriously. Finally he was going to have to answer to being a deadbeat dad.
Merril was living in a bubble, within which he was practically a god. His position in the FLDS let him do anything to anyone and never be held accountable. This position bred arrogance and convinced him that he was above the law.
Natalie’s last question to him was “Mr. Jessop, why is it that you don’t financially support your children?”
This time Merril had an answer. “When Carolyn was with me, I provided her with nice living conditions, and she didn’t have to leave me,” he said. “So I felt like that was all I could do.”
The next witness called was my father, Arthur Blackmore, who at one time had been a business partner of Merril’s. I was proud that my dad was standing up for me. He testified about money he had seen Merril receive, the most substantial being a check for $180,000 in 2004. If Merril hadn’t incriminated himself enough already, my father’s testimony added more damni
ng evidence because it proved that he did have money to support his children. In November 2008 he had signed for a $900,000 lien against the ranch that named his attorney as the trustee. Merril had a hard time explaining it. He claimed he didn’t know whether that lien was intended to pay for FLDS legal fees and that his lawyer had never billed him.
LuAnne, 18, took the stand next and answered questions about our living conditions after we escaped. Her father had been fully aware of how destitute we were, she explained to the court, when we were living in the homeless shelter and the trailer. She said she’d been too embarrassed to bring friends home from school when we were living there because she’d been used to living in a large house in good condition. She explained why she hadn’t asked her father for things she needed during that time. “I didn’t ask,” she said, “because I knew what the answer would be.”
I was proud of my daughter. She exhibited extraordinary poise and strength but conveyed real emotion and disgust about the way Merril treated our family. LuAnne firmly believed that she and all her siblings, especially Harrison, had been put at risk by Merril’s callous disregard for their well-being.
In the months after we escaped, Merril had tried to persuade my children that they were being punished because of my wicked decisions. He tried to make them believe that if I went back, they’d be taken care of again. So my children all thought that if they made things difficult enough for me, they’d get to go back to the (superficially) better living conditions in the FLDS.