Stolen Innocence - Lisa Pulitzer [170]
It was such a relief to have the support of Teressa and Kassandra, who were also testifying for the prosecution that day. In the summer weeks before Warren was captured, I’d asked my sisters for their permission to allow investigators from the Washington County Attorneys Office to contact them. I was grateful when they’d both agreed to speak out.
Teressa had left the FLDS just a few months earlier and was living with her children at Kassandra and Ryan’s house in northern Idaho. Like so many women, she’d grown weary of Warren’s ongoing involvement in her marriage. Her troubles began when she’d returned to Canada after a visit with Kassandra to find that Warren was upset because she’d missed three church services in a row. He told her she’d “lost her testimony” and was not “worthy enough to be a wife.” He even banned her from engaging in sexual relations with her husband until she agreed to write a letter pledging her allegiance to him. When she refused, members of the community shunned her. The impact of their scorn played out one afternoon when Teressa’s daughter cut herself severely and my sister didn’t have a phone to call for help. Grabbing her bleeding child, she raced to a neighbor, and the family refused to let her in.
Her husband begged her to just write the letter so they could go back to living as husband and wife, and Teressa finally relented. But the letter wasn’t satisfactory to Warren—he wanted another in which she pledged her undying allegiance to him. This seemed to be Warren’s way of getting back at her for her past disobedience, and showing her the amount of control he had. Her seemed to take pleasure in making her life harder. But Teressa couldn’t bring herself to pledge her allegiance to Warren and chose to take her children and leave her husband and the religion instead. She’d been living with Kassandra in Idaho ever since.
Holding my breath, I marched through the back door of the courthouse and followed prosecutors to the courtroom where the hearing would soon begin. My husband, sisters, and I were directed to take seats in the jury box. Court officials were expecting a full house, and with only three rows of seats for spectators, admission was going to be on a first-come, first-served basis. It was a simple-enough setup, with rows of folding chairs for all the onlookers and fluorescent lights flickering overheard. It didn’t look at all like TV courtrooms with shiny mahogany and large windows that let in the sun. As the room began to fill up, the sight of all the reporters scribbling on notepads in the two front rows unnerved me, but I tried to take comfort in having Lamont and my sisters by my side.
Everyone rose as the Honorable Judge James L. Shumate entered and took his place at the elevated wood desk in the front of the courtroom. Peering out at me through rimless eyeglasses, he acknowledged my presence with a nod. His kind, round face was partially covered with a light, mostly gray beard. I’d been told that he had a reputation for being fair and reasonable.
Two court officers suddenly entered the room through a side door, and my heart nearly jumped into my throat. The keys on their belts clanged a metallic rhythm as they led Warren into the courtroom. He looked gaunt. His funeral-black suit hung loosely on his frame, emphasizing his pale complexion.
I watched the man I’d once regarded as God’s mouthpiece on earth walk to the defense table, where three lawyers, two male and one female, sat waiting for him. Everything