Stolen Innocence - Lisa Pulitzer [190]
Even after her testimony, I waited to hug her during one of the intermissions and was heartened when she whispered these words: “I’m sorry. I know you know what’s right.”
On September 19, my ex-husband, Allen Steed, took the stand. During the course of his testimony, I was overwhelmed by a dual sense of loathing and pity. Like Jennie, he had obviously been instructed to uphold a homespun image on the stand, and he appeared in an unpressed denim shirt and casual pants. I knew that Allen owned plenty of suits; I’d seen them hanging in his closet in the trailer. And he knew it was appropriate to dress more formally in court. The handful of FLDS supporters who’d come to court each day to show their support of Warren all donned black suits and ties.
Allen looked very self-conscious and like he was about to crumble. His meek, humble demeanor almost sickened me. I wasn’t sure if it was an act or if in the years since I’d left him he’d become this pitiful. He had a glazed cloudiness to his eyes that matched the look I’d seen on my mother’s face when the FLDS teachings had pushed every other thought from her mind. I was shocked along with many of those in attendance when Allen’s questioning began with his lawyer present and the reading of his Miranda rights. He hadn’t yet been formally charged with any crimes but by taking the stand and testifying he was waiving his right to self-incrimination.
Allen spoke so quietly throughout his testimony that it was almost impossible to hear him, and he was frequently reminded to speak up. Initially it seemed his nerves had gotten the better of him as he sat rattling off a chain of pro-FLDS statements and claiming for the jury that we had actually had a good marriage. As I listened to him speak, an image flashed briefly in my mind—Allen and me in the trailer during one of our painful nights when he forced sex on me. I was almost shocked to see him here at all, but then I knew what he was doing. He had to look good in front of the prophet, just like everyone else. Otherwise, he would have nowhere to turn. I felt a pang of sympathy for Allen; this was probably a last-ditch effort on his part to receive a new wife and start again on his path to heaven. He was willing to fall on the sword for Warren. Watching this whole legal process, I had seen Warren throw so many under the bus as he was now doing with Allen. In an effort to prove his innocence, he had thrown the blame at the feet of my mother, Uncle Fred, my sisters, my father, and even me. This act was a public statement that he was willing to condemn someone else to jail in order to win his freedom.
“Elissa Wall was your wife, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Are you related to her?”
“We have the same grandfather. Our grandmothers are separate,” he said, as if that detail rendered our situation any more legal or justified.
The defense established that Allen and I had known each other and seen each other from time to time in Hildale at Uncle Fred’s house.
“How did you get along before the marriage?”
For some reason, part of me expected Allen to admit that he had been cruel to me—a nasty tease. Instead, he responded, “I didn’t do much with her, so…” It was left for the jury to intuit that we had no relationship either way.
“Did you do any dating growing up?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Any dancing?”
“A little, mostly with my sisters.”
“Any kissing?”