Stolen Innocence (58 page)

“The evidence has shown that the only reason that Elissa Wall went into that bedroom and had sexual intercourse with Allen Steed is because that man there told her she was supposed to,” Brock told jurors, pointing a finger at Warren Jeffs. “If Warren Jeffs had not performed that wedding ceremony, would Allen Steed ever had had sexual intercourse with Elissa Wall? If Warren Jeffs had never arranged the marriage or declared her his wife, would she have had sexual intercourse with him? He placed her in a position where she had no choice.”

While Brock’s statement was powerful and convincing, I wondered how the jurors were receiving it. The panel never once revealed any hint of how they were leaning, and there was no way to tell what they would ultimately decide.

Any ounce of respect I had tried to muster for Wally Bugden disintegrated minutes into his nearly two-hour closing arguments. He portrayed the state as out to prosecute religion and painted Warren as the victim of religious persecution. Again, he worked to portray me as the aggressor. “She is no shrinking violet,” he remarked. Whipping out my medical records that had been provided by Jane Blackmore, he commented, “Let me show you something you don’t know about Elissa Wall.”

The courtroom fell silent in anticipation. I couldn’t imagine what he was going to say and braced myself for this unexpected presentation. “Her medical records list the following items checked off: Nutrition, Alcohol, Drugs, OTC’s and Vitamins, Smoking Before Pregnancy, Smoking Currently, Secondhand Smoke.”

Flabbergasted, I shot Brock a look of panic. How could the defense paint me as such a monster, rattling off a list of lies? The judge requested a break, during which time I turned to Brock with tears of fury in my eyes. It was a feeling worse than being exposed—it was exploitation. I had no idea how they could have mustered those assertions about me, and I searched Brock’s face for an answer.

“Don’t worry, Elissa,” he said to me softly. “I have it.” I nodded.

Brock rose for a counterstatement. “I am about to do something that is very against my nature,” he began, and I watched, stunned, as Brock’s passion and emotion poured out of him. By the time he was finished, my respect and affection for him had only increased. He zoomed in on the medical record Bugden had tried to use against me, exposing a flaw in the defense’s argument. Brock held up the paper for the jury to see, elucidating with an his pointer finger three little words printed above that fateful list of checked boxes: “Not a concern.” Immediately, the courtroom was filled with gasps and murmurs. When it grew silent again, Brock continued.

“I’ll tell you this,” he said in conclusion. “No matter who it is—a preacher, a Buddhist, a friend, a parent—if they had done this to a young girl, they would be in here too.” It was a phenomenal moment because this was not just a testament to me, nor was it about taking Warren down. It was not just about a high-profile trial and to add a feather to the prosecution’s cap. Brock was simply defending the law of the land and what the prosecution knew was right. He was defending not only my honor but that of every young girl in the state of Utah.

T
he jury had much to discuss, and it wouldn’t be an easy road for them. The panel of five men and three women went to the deliberation room to decide the case and remained there for about two hours that Friday before being dismissed for the weekend.

The jury reconvened on Monday, September 24, but by the end of the day there was a problem. One of the female jury members had not been completely candid in her juror questionnaire, failing to mention that she had been raped at thirteen. Apparently, at some point during the heated deliberations, she’d let the fact slip out, and as Monday’s discussions wound to a close a note was sent to the judge alerting him to the situation, informing him that the jury was hung. They couldn’t reach a unanimous verdict. The following morning, I learned of the problem. I assumed that the rape victim was the sole holdout for a guilty verdict. My heart sank as I tried to confront the idea that seven of the eight jurors wanted to acquit.

That morning Judge Shumate met with attorneys from both sides to determine how they would proceed. After some discussion, he instructed the juror to step down, but this left a larger question looming. The judge had not released the four alternate jurors from jury duty and had ordered them to refrain from watching TV, reading newspapers, going online, or doing anything that might compromise their oath. Since these jurors were all still on active jury duty, could the court proceed with an alternate juror or would the judge have to declare a mistrial?

The dismissal of the juror alarmed our team and made me worry that the jury was leaning toward a “not guilty” verdict. Furthermore, I felt deep empathy for the juror who’d been excused, knowing that if it weren’t for me, her private story would not have been splashed across the daily news as a salacious update on the trial that was rocking Utah. Brock and I spoke about my concerns and he calmed me down by explaining that the last thing the prosecution wanted was to make us all go through this again, but if necessary they would argue for a mistrial and do it all over. This helps explain my deep respect for Brock and the rest of his team; they did not care about the time or money wasted. They were willing to go through with it again, just to do the right thing.

In a closed-door session with the judge, attorneys for both sides met to determine how the case would proceed. The prosecution hated to do so but still argued strenuously for a mistrial knowing that any conviction they achieved with this jury would give the defense grounds for an appeal. The defense saw the situation differently. They seemed confident that this jury would deliver them the not guilty verdict they were looking for and emphatically demanded to proceed with this jury.

After listening to both sides, Judge Shumate differed to the defense’s request. He called in one of the alternates and sat her in the deliberation room. He instructed her and the other jurors to start from the beginning if necessary.

The situation was painfully difficult for me. I did not want to do this whole thing over again, but the idea that we could win a guilty verdict and then have it voided through a subsequent mistrial ruling was disconcerting. It was one thing to have a mistrial before we’d won anything; it would be quite different if we tasted victory only to have it taken away. But in the end the defense had gotten their wish to proceed with this jury, and now all we could do was wait.

J
ust three hours into deliberations with the alternate juror, word came that a verdict had been reached. I entered the courtroom that day in a cloud of anxiety and feeling sick to my stomach. My eyes met Brock’s, seeking comfort. “It will be okay,” he mouthed silently. As I took my seat behind the prosecuting team, I tried to take heart in the knowledge that we had done the best we could to show the truth. It was out of our hands now.

The prosecution had prepped me a bit on how to judge the jury’s body language for clues about the decision. Sometimes, they explained, if the jury had ruled in favor of the victim, some of them might instinctively make eye contact with him or her. My heart sank into the floor as the jury filed into the courtroom and not one of them glanced in my direction. “Please, God, keep me strong,” I asked. Then I thought of the people assembled in the back rows of the room and those waiting patiently in the still-intact FLDS communities, knowing that they were all praying for the release of Warren Jeffs. As much as I cared for them, on this day, I hoped that their prayers would go unanswered.

“Is there a verdict?” the judge inquired of the jury.

The jury foreman stood and replied, “Yes. We have a verdict.”

The hearts of every person in that room pulsed frantically, each of us filled with hope and worry. Like a child, I squeezed my eyes shut to protect myself from what was to come.

“In the first count of rape as an accomplice, we the jury find the defendant, Warren Steed Jeffs,…guilty.”

Guilty?
Had I heard correctly? I looked at Warren’s lawyers for their reaction and was able to confirm that the verdict had in fact been what I’d thought. Tears flowed to my eyes.

“In the second count of rape as an accomplice, we the jury find the defendant, Warren Steed Jeffs,…guilty.”

I was paralyzed. A rush of emotions took hold of me. It wasn’t just happiness, or a feeling of self-righteousness. It was bittersweet. On one hand, I felt grateful that the jury had been able to see past the confusion the defense had tried to create and vindicate the truth. And yet, I also felt a deep, sharp pain for every person who was still a part of the FLDS. I knew that everyone in that back row was so hurt. Mom and the other believers back home would be crushed once they heard the news.

Something changed in me then. While I’d long dreamed of this day, it wasn’t the outcome I’d expected at all. Somehow deep down I’d always thought he would get away with it. Now that he hadn’t, I didn’t know how to feel. All I could think was that none of this would have happened if I hadn’t had the reminder of all my sisters to give me strength to stand up to do what I knew was right. Even though no one would listen to me at first, in the end a group of eight jurors listened to me when it counted most. Ever since the day Uncle Fred informed me that I was to marry, I had been ignored and slandered by countless people—Warren, Fred, Allen, and now Warren’s defense attorneys. But on this day, none of that mattered.

I looked at the faces of the prosecuting attorneys and didn’t see a shred of arrogance or a loud display of triumph. Rather, they sat quietly as the room gradually emptied. In their eyes there was the satisfaction of knowing that justice had been served. Relief inflated me as I later was filtered into the back room to talk with the jury. I approached them, wondering what to say. “Thank you” would not be enough. I expressed my gratitude to them, but to this day I don’t know if any of them will ever understand the depths of my admiration. I am so grateful for the their willingness and attentiveness, and for their taking the time out of their lives to hear the story of one young girl and the man responsible for her pain.

Throughout the gruelling trial process, I had purposely remained silent in the face of the press. My picture had been released, but I was apprehensive about saying anything, not wanting to be misunderstood. But a few people had approached me and suggested that I couldn’t remain in the shadows anymore. It was hard to hear at first—I’d felt safe and comfortable there. Now I knew that they were right; I had to address the public.

I would make my statement brief despite the inner pull to speak for a full hour about how much I loved Mom, the girls, everyone in Colorado City, and even the people who had testified against me. I wanted them to know that I cared deeply about them all—even if we were on different sides—and that I knew they were in mourning. I wanted to urge the public to be kind to these people, and to let them come on their own. I wanted to say to the public, “If you see them in the grocery store, give them a kind word instead of a cruel one, because you never know if that one kind word would make the difference for them.” All they know about people on the outside is what they have been taught; that they are evil, and the thing that had surprised me most in my transcendent journey from the FLDS to the life I live now is that good, honest, and respectful people lived out here and are nothing like what we’d been taught they are.

Brock reminded me that there would be safety risks involved with my facing the media, but I confirmed that this was something I needed to do. We remained in the quiet comfort of the courthouse when I turned to the bailiff and said, “Okay, I would like to give a statement, but I don’t want to answer questions or be flooded.” The bailiff was a spunky redhead with a strong will and loads of confidence. She marched right out front, and I could hear her through the glass doors as she faced the crowd that had assembled to hear Brock speak and declared, “All right, everybody. Elissa Wall is coming out here and she has words for you all. I am expecting a ten-foot distance to be upheld. She will not be answering any questions. If you can handle these rules, you can stay. If not, please leave.”

I met Brock’s eyes and beamed in a statement of “Here goes!” He started out first, heading down the stairs toward the press. As soon as I got outside, I wanted to turn in the other direction and run. There was a semicircle of people waiting—at least fifty reporters equipped with cameras and microphones. I froze in place, focusing on my breathing as I listened to Brock’s brief, passionate statement. When he finished, he turned toward me and motioned for me to walk forward and begin. I was so self-conscious. All I could think was, “What happens if my heel breaks right now?” Timidly, I headed toward the swarm of media.

My voice was almost gone that day from the weeks of built-up stress and overextension. I worried that I wouldn’t be able to speak. But once I arrived at the microphone, something strange happened. I glanced down at my paper and my eyes went directly to a line about my mother. A warm feeling stretched over me, putting my mind at ease. In that single moment I knew that though we were fighting on different sides and though we might never see or speak to each other again, the deep love my mother and I felt for each other could never be dampened or extinguished. In my heart, she was right there beside me, holding my hand.

My voice hardly wavered as I addressed the press.

“When I was young, my mother taught me that ‘evil flourishes when good men do nothing.’ This has not been easy. The easy thing would have been to do nothing. But I have followed my heart and spoken the truth.

“Lamont and I want to convey our love to our families. Mother, I love you and my sisters unconditionally, and will go to the ends of the earth for you. I understand and respect your convictions, but I will never give up on you. When you are ready, I am here.

“I have very tender feelings for the FLDS people. There is so much good in them. I pray they will find the strength to step back, reexamine what they have been told to believe, and follow their hearts.