I thought back, my mind drifting into memories that were powerful and very clear. Waking up that night, right there in that very bed, the same yellow light filtering through the window and a long knife at my neck. Hiking up the mountain. Asking Mitchell that, if he was going to kill me, he do it near the trail where my body could be found. Walking into the high camp and meeting Barzee. Her cold smile. Her hard embrace. The white robes. The first time that he raped me, Barzee sitting passively outside the tent.
All of these memories came flooding into my mind.
But there were other memories that I lived through that night as well.
Memories that gave me hope. Memories that gave me comfort.
The constant feeling that I was not alone. That God had never left me. That He was as close as any prayer.
The assurance that my grandfather had been called back home so that he could walk beside me, my heavenly bodyguard.
The night I had been given a cup of cold water by my pillow.
The night that it rained.
The reassuring voice that I had heard when I was standing in the fountain, the cool water washing over my feet. Wanting the water to wash my soul away, I had resolved again, Whatever it takes to survive this. Whatever it takes to live.
The young man in San Diego who had brightened up my Christmas by giving me a radio, allowing me to hear some Christmas music, even if only for a while.
The people who volunteered to feed the homeless on a day when they wanted to be home with their families.
All of the people who had searched for me. I was only beginning to understand everything that they had done. They had kept the search alive. They were the key to finding me! Were it not for them, no one would have recognized me once we had returned to Salt Lake City. Were it not for them, I’d be confined up on the mountain instead of lying in my bed.
All of the people who had stopped to give us a ride, or give us food or give us a little water as we hiked back from California.
Yes, I had lived through many miracles. I had experienced tender mercies that literally kept me alive. I had been carried by the love of others, and in many ways I had been blessed.
Rolling over, I pulled the blanket around my chin and thanked God once again that I was home.
39.
Trial
November 2010
It had been almost eight years since I had seen Brian David Mitchell. During that time I had finished high school, pursued a degree at BYU in music performance, had a few boyfriends, been to a lifetime of receptions, got a new dog, enjoyed many nights with my family, and made a lot of friends. I’d been skiing and camping and riding on my horse. I had enjoyed picnics and vacations and warm summer nights in my backyard. At the time of the trial, I was living in Paris, where I was serving an eighteen-month volunteer mission for my church. I had been able to come home and spend a few days with my family during the trial, but I looked forward to going back and finishing my service to the wonderful people I had come to love in France.
During the same eight years, Mitchell had been locked up in jail. He had told a thousand lies and sung a thousand songs. He had pretended that he was crazy and manipulated a few doctors into believing that his insanity was real. He had continued to insist that he was a holy prophet and that he spoke to God. He had pretended that he was sick, sometimes dropping into seizures upon the floor. He had been betrayed by his own wife and faced a dozen different prison cell mates, none of whom appreciated what he’d done. He had become a media sensation, his bearded face and narrow eyes making him one of the most recognized criminals in the world.
Now it was time for him to face the law.
*
The Federal Courthouse is a large, tan, neoclassical sandstone building in downtown Salt Lake City. It has a fenced parking lot in the back, but all of the entrances are visible to the public. A large crowd had gathered outside the courthouse, many of them photographers and television crews who were frantic to get any kind of picture that they could publish in the press. I could hear them shouting as my unmarked van pulled into the court parking lot. Surrounded by my family and a few key supporters, including a young woman named Katy Lund who had served with me in France and had become my closest friend, I was escorted into the courthouse through a back door. Ducking out of sight, I tried to ignore the press.
We were taken into a private room to avoid the boisterous crowd that had assembled in the courtroom. Finally, and at the very last moment before the judge was to get the trial started for the day, I was taken into the courtroom. It was everything that you’d expect. A raised box for the jury. High ceilings. A beautiful wood dais for the judge. The courtroom was absolutely packed. I was led to a seat behind the prosecuting attorneys and their staff.
A few minutes later, a large door to the right of the witness stand was pulled open. Everyone waited, but no one appeared. Then I heard him singing. It was not a beautiful sound. It was sick and scratchy and the song was nearly unrecognizable. It seemed to take a long time, but he finally walked into the room.