Authors: Elissa Wall
I finally told my siblings I just couldn’t do it. April 23, 2005, passed like any other day, and I breathed a sigh of relief, believing that I was ready to move on to the next phase of my life. My optimism, however, was misplaced.
Lamont returned home one day to report that an investigator from the Mohave County Sheriff’s Office in Arizona had unexpectedly joined him and his friend for breakfast. Apparently, there was great interest in my story and this investigator was eager to speak with me about my marriage to Allen. From what Lamont told me, Kassandra and Craig had been misinformed when they were told that the statute of limitations would run out for me that past April. There was still plenty of time for them to file charges against Warren based on what happened to me, and even without my cooperation, this investigator could subpoena me and force me to testify against my will.
The more I heard, the more I came to see that somehow I was going to get sucked into this once again, and the possibility frightened me to no end. Lamont was also scared, and neither of us was prepared to take on the preisthood. We had family members and friends still there, and going up against the priesthood was like going against them.
My determination to stay out of the spotlight grew firmer as I watched another young FLDS woman get thrown to the wolves that spring. Like me, she’d been driven across state lines to Caliente, where at age sixteen she was sealed by Warren to a man twelve years her senior who already had a wife and four children. Like me, she’d been unable to bear her marriage, but when she escaped the community she eventually went to the police. Authorities in Mohave County convinced her to bring rape charges against her FLDS husband and Warren, and she testified before a grand jury. But before they could hold Warren accountable in a court of law, her name was leaked to the press. Her family members who were still in the FLDS hunted her down and “loved her” out of testifying. Soon after that, she disappeared for a long stretch.
Because they’d lost their only other accuser, the investigator from Mohave County redoubled his efforts to convince Lamont to have me come forward. They’d lost their star witness, and they were eager to recruit me in her place. I, however, was unwilling to be that girl, and Lamont made it clear that they should leave me alone.
My panic only heightened when a lawyer from Salt Lake City began calling Lamont in early May. Roger Hoole was representing “the Lost Boys” and Brent Jeffs in their civil suits against Warren Jeffs and the church and its financial arm, the UEP Trust. They’d won a victory in Utah, with the state court agreeing to take control of the UEP Trust away from Warren and his cronies and assign it to a court-appointed trustee. But everyone knew that this was not enough to completely stop the FLDS prophet from controlling the lives and homes of the people. They needed a witness to file criminal charges against Warren, and that, they hoped, was where I would come in.
Though Roger was also interested in bringing Warren to justice, his methods were more relaxed than those of the Mohave County investigators. He wanted to help me come forward on my terms, without the pressure of Utah and Arizona on my shoulders. In a series of calls, he told Lamont that he believed he could protect me from being called to testify against my will. He was already representing a number of former FLDS members and had gained their trust. I continuously declined to speak with him, but as the days passed, I grew anxious about the possibility that Arizona prosecutors would subpoena me.
Eventually I became tired of hearing everything second- and thirdhand, so in mid-June I picked up the phone and dialed Roger Hoole. “Roger,” I began as soon as I heard a man’s voice on the other end of the line. “This is Elissa Wall. If you guys want to know about me, then you should talk to me directly.” I could sense that I had caught him completely off guard, and there was a momentary pause before he answered me.
“Well, hello there,” he replied in a kind tone. It sounded as though he was smiling when he said, “Well, all right then.”
That conversation was the first of many. I quickly learned that Roger was very disarming, and he listened intently to my concerns. While there was intense interest in me by members of law enforcement, no one really knew my full story, and he was willing to let me talk at my own pace. Listening to him discuss his other clients, I was encouraged to see that some of the people who’d taken legal action against the church were okay, and God had not struck them down with lightning. Despite his reassurances, I remained extremely fearful of what could happen to me if I decided to speak with police. After several meetings with Roger, he raised the idea of having me speak with an attorney in Baltimore named Joanne Suder. Suder had made a name for herself representing alleged victims of clergy sexual abuse in the Catholic Church’s Baltimore archdiocese and had initiated the lawsuits for the Lost Boys and Brent Jeffs.
One weekend in early July, I agreed to fly to the East Coast to meet with her on the condition that Kassandra and Lamont could accompany me. I had never spoken to anyone about what had transpired in my marriage, and the idea of telling a total stranger worried me, but from the start of our first meeting, she set me at ease. While I didn’t reveal much, my answers to her questions provided enough information to indicate that crimes had been committed.
I would later be accused of seeking Joanne Suder’s counsel to initiate a civil action for monetary gain but the idea of taking money from the church had never crossed my mind. All I knew about Joanne was that she was an attorney. I had no idea what kind of law she practiced, and at that point I was too uneducated about the legal system to understand that there were different kinds of lawyers for different issues.
I was relieved when our meeting ended, and over the next few days Lamont and I debated whether I should take my case to the next level. The ease of the weekend faded almost as soon as we got back to Utah and heard that the investigator from Mohave County was attempting to locate me to serve me with papers.
Frantic, I telephoned Roger.
Roger was careful not to push me. He knew I had to come around on my own, and he’d seen what had happened to the other female FLDS witness who’d come forward. Neither of us wanted to see me go down her path, but at the same time, a small voice inside was telling me that coming forward might be the right thing to do.
Finally, one day, I met with Roger and asked him straight out, “Am I going to end up in a court?”
“Do you want me to be honest?”
“Yes,” I replied, looking up at him. I had come to trust Roger, and I was certain he would be straight with me.
“Yes, Elissa, sooner or later, you are going to end up in a courtroom testifying.”
It was at that moment that I put my fate in Roger’s hands. He’d been working against child abuse perpetuated against the FLDS people. He had outlined a plan to help the people of the church, and on that day I became a part of it. I put my trust in Roger that he could help me in knowing the right thing to do. He’d already helped to accomplish the removal of the UEP Trust from the control of Warren Jeffs, so it could no longer be used as a tool to force parents to kick out their boys or marry off their girls.
I started to see the important role I could play, but I needed it to be on my terms. With that in mind, Roger arranged a dinner meeting with the district attorney of Washington County, Utah. I was terrified at the prospect of sitting down across the table from this kind of person. I had already formulated an opinion of what such a man would be like and I was uncertain if I wanted to attend the meeting.
Lamont and I sat in his truck outside the restaurant in St. George for nearly twenty minutes as I agonized over whether I would go in. Roger would do what he could to make sure that I would not be slapped with a subpoena. I was trembling as I followed Lamont inside with Tyler in my arms. As we neared the table, I could see that Roger was seated next to a slender man with wire-rimmed glasses. He stood and smiled at me, his eyes were kind. During the course of our meal, I studied him. He was soft-spoken and very respectful. Here I had expected a brash, boastful man, but he was nothing at all like what I’d anticipated. Brock Belnap erased all of my prejudices about prosecutors, government, lawyers, and law enforcement, and by the end of the meal I began to relax in his company.
Brock told me that what had happened to me was criminal, and if I decided to press charges, his office was willing to go forward. His voice exuded patience, and I was surprised by how attentive he was to my concerns. I didn’t want my name getting out there, and I needed assurance that that wouldn’t happen. I could never forgive myself if something happened to my infant son, and I needed to know that both he and my family would be protected.
Though Mohave County prosecutors were still interested in using me as their witness, there were compelling reasons for proceeding with Brock and prosecuting in Utah first. The penalties for what Warren had done were harsher in Utah, and Brock seemed more willing to prevent my name from being exposed to the public until it was necessary. While it would be several more months before I officially sat down with detectives, that night the wheels of justice began to turn against Warren Jeffs. The Washington County District Attorney’s Office agreed to enter into a confidentiality and cooperation agreement with me that would shield my identity and allow me to back out at any time if it became too much for me. To protect my identity, Brock Belnap also agreed to hold off on charging Allen until after Warren, who at the time was hiding, had been arrested. He also agreed not to pursue incest charges, because that could have helped give me away. This agreement was signed in early November.
“We will never push you into anything,” the district attorney assured me. It was a promise he would uphold. That day, we searched our calendars for a time for me to meet with detectives. With Christmas upon us and my family gathering at my home in St. George, we put it off until the first of the year.
As I understood more about my situation, I came to see that criminal proceedings against Warren were only one of the options at my disposal. I could file civil charges against him as well to help ratchet up the pressure. Though I wasn’t eager to spend any more time in the court system than I needed to, I didn’t want to pull any punches in my efforts against Warren. I carefully weighed my options and decided that if I was going to do this, I wanted to go all the way. I hoped the criminal proceedings would be a useful tool to elicit justice, but the civil trial could be an effective counterpoint.
On December 13, 2005, I filed a civil suit in neighboring Iron County against Warren Jeffs and the FLDS Church seeking monetary damages in “an amount to be determined by the jury.” The following spring, I would add the UEP Trust as a defendant. Pursuing the trust, which had been used by the priesthood to control me, presented other opportunities for me to make a real difference. I wanted to find a way to make resources available to young girls and women trying to leave the FLDS, and believed the civil suit could help. The suit alleged that Warren had forced me into an underage marriage with an older man and that I’d suffered as a result. Fearing repercussions, I decided to file the suit under a pseudonym, the initials M.J. Bringing this case in Iron County and using those initials would help divert attention from me.
With the civil suit filed, I refocused my attention on the criminal investigation. On New Year’s Day I navigated the walkway to the Children’s Justice Center in St. George. Dressed in a pair of dark slacks and a blouse, I followed Roger and his brother Greg, who was also cocounsel, into the converted residence that now housed this child-friendly office. Brock Belnap from the Washington County DA’s office, and two of his associates were waiting for me and escorted me to a meeting room. My nerves were on edge as the reality of what I was about to do hit home. I was going to talk to someone. I was going to tell that person as much as I could about what had happened to me.
That person turned out to be two people: County Sheriff’s Detective Shauna Jones and Ryan Shaum, an assistant district attorney for Washington County, and that meeting was the most challenging of my life. I broke down countless times over the four hours I was there, recalling, as best I could, what I had tried to forget: my marriage to Allen and the horrible abuse I endured during the three years I spent as his wife. At times I felt as if I couldn’t breathe, and I had to stop the interview to be comforted. I was so nervous that I just kept blurting out details in random order, unable to stop my mind from racing. It was as if I’d opened my own Pandora’s Box. The moment the lid was lifted, it all came pouring out and there was nothing I could do to stop it. It was painful, but in the end, it served as a critical turning point for me because I had to begin facing what I had tried so hard to bury in the past. Shauna Jones was a pro and knew how to gently draw me out of my shell. Even though I was older than most of the victims she usually interviewed, I was still very childlike. What came out of this meeting for me was the realization that what had happened to me was wrong in the eyes of the world.
Leaving the interview I felt a measure of relief that I’d unloaded some of my pain, but I didn’t have the tools to deal with all of my emotions. Over the next several days, I suffered terrible nightmares and anxiety attacks. At times I became so breathless, I thought I was going to die. As the months progressed, however, my anxiety began to fade.
That March, I returned for a second interview, and later a third.
On April 5, 2006, the Washington Country District Attorney’s Office held a press conference to announce that they were charging Warren Jeffs with two counts of rape as an accomplice, a first-degree felony, for forcing a teenage girl into a marriage to an older man. That teenage girl was known only as Jane Doe IV, to throw off the priesthood and lead them to believe that Jane Doe IV was one of a number of victims coming forward. Only a handful of people knew that M.J. and Jane Doe IV were both me, and that secret was closely guarded.