Stolen Innocence - Lisa Pulitzer [196]
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