After a fitful night’s sleep, I woke to shouting from the living room. “Everyone please come in here. I have a few announcements.”
I hurried out with my other relatives and noticed that like me, everyone had on their same clothes from the night before, all of us too scared to change into pajamas. Who knew if there might be an attack or if we might have to leave suddenly? A different SWAT officer, this one with a dark complexion, probably Mexican, stood near the front door and held a clipboard. He went through travel instructions for each of us, telling us which car we would ride in to the funeral and with whom.
We quickly ate, changed clothes, and got ready to leave. I put on a long black pencil skirt and a loose white cotton top. Celia and I were put in the same group, along with Ramona and a few others, and we left the house by 8:30 a.m. to go to the funeral home. Don drove us and tried to make conversation on the way, although he gave up after several one-word answers. Clearly, no one felt like talking that morning. When we pulled into the driveway entrance to the funeral home, a SWAT member holding a clipboard stopped the vehicle and gestured for Don to roll down the window.
The SWAT member leaned over and peered into the car. “Who do we have in this vehicle?”
Don pointed to each of us, one by one, and said our names.
The man checked us off his list. “Okay, you may proceed. Please drive slowly so I can identify the license number of this vehicle.” I turned my head and watched him out the rear window. He made a couple more notes as we drove away.
The funeral home was a red brick building with large white columns. Don dropped us off at the entrance. We were greeted by a male officer just inside the main double doors. “Good morning, everyone. I’m Agent Hansen.” He pointed at Celia and me. “Ladies, I need you to follow me. The rest of you, please wait here.”
He led us to a side office and seated us at a large wooden desk. He opened a file folder and took out a stack of papers, placing them in front of us. “As I’m sure you can see, these are photos of your family members and other people in your father’s church. I need you to go through and put them into two stacks —the ‘good’ ones and the ‘bad’ ones.” Although there was some overlap with the photos we had already gone through at the house, most of these photos were new.
I stared at Celia, my mouth agape in astonishment. She looked surprised as well.
Agent Hansen placed both hands on the desk and leaned in toward us. “Look, we’re not messing around here. We want to keep all of you safe, and we can’t do that without your help. I imagine you trust the majority of these people, but we desperately need you to identify anyone who might cause trouble. We’ll have plenty of plainclothes officers here today, as well as at the gravesite.”
I knew immediately what “might cause trouble” meant. He might as well have said “might kill someone today.” Celia and I spent about fifteen minutes sifting through photos of people from both the LeBaron family and my father’s cult following. We identified a couple of people we weren’t sure were safe.
When we were done, Agent Hansen smiled and thanked us. As Celia and I got up to leave, he said, “Wait one minute, please. I need to take a photo of both of you to add to the pile of ‘good,’ safe people.” Once that was done, he escorted us back out to the reception area. As others arrived at the funeral home, they were escorted to the back room, too, for the same procedure.
I don’t remember much about the funeral itself, but I know my mother sang the hymn “O My Father.” I was still taking the medication for my walking pneumonia, which, combined with the trauma of the situation, made things fuzzy. Still, one memory remains crystal clear: I recall seeing Jim Coates, a retired sheriff who was a family friend, standing at the back of the funeral home during the service. Despite all the SWAT and FBI presence, what made me feel most secure was knowing Jim was there, gun in hand, ready to protect us should anything go down.
After the service, the family got into six or seven limos to transport all of us to the cemetery. As we pulled out, I noticed snipers perched in trees around the funeral home. Officials shut down Interstate 10 in Houston for the procession, and policemen —in cars and on motorcycles —dotted the route. Like an event for a dignitary or celebrity, the procession went on for miles. On the way, I looked out the back window of our limo. The line of cars behind us seemed to have no end.
At the cemetery, the men of Spring Branch Church of God stood behind the family, acting as a human shield to the grieving family members of Mark, Ed, Duane, and Jenny, willing to take a bullet for us.
A HEAVINESS SETTLED OVER THE HOUSE in the days following Mark’s funeral. With his death, an emptiness enveloped us all. He had been a solid, steadying presence in my life. He had loved gadgets and always wanted to have the latest and greatest technology —he even owned one of the first cell phones, the kind that was so big it came in a bag.
The FBI and police still provided protection for us. We feared for our lives because murder suspects were still on the loose, so officers were stationed in front of and behind the house to offer extra security. The kids, normally lively and boisterous, still played, but overall they were much more subdued. Lillian spent hours and hours alone in her room, emerging only to make sure the kids were fed. When she did come out, her children mobbed her, desperate to hold her hand, sit in her lap, or tell her about their day. Her eyes were hollow and lifeless. Seeing her in such a state unnerved me because she’d always been so busy and energetic.
The days went by in dull activity, with time passing in slow motion. I recovered from my illness, but I had no idea what my future held now. Short visits from my friends, including my school friend, David, offered me some comfort and helped me see beyond the intense pain and heaviness of each day.
Sorrow and fear lingered as well —sorrow permeating mealtime and fear increasing at bedtime. The children begged to sleep with Lillian, and she let them. At least they were able to cuddle together then; during the day, Lillian was consumed by her grief and didn’t have much to give them. So the children turned their focus to me, and I tried to keep them occupied. But it took a toll on me at night because I had a difficult time falling asleep.