Angie, The Child Bride

By Sanjiv Bhattacharya

This is the opening of Chapter 10 of Secrets & Wives: The Hidden World of Mormon Polygamy (Counterpoint), published in 2011

All names have been changed except Jim Harmston and Angie Mower

It’s a low overcast day as I leave Salt Lake City. Splatterings of showers from a dirty sky. The clouds have lowered their beards over the mountain peaks, covering the snowy nipples, and it seems a fittingly chaste gesture for my journey into the super-Mormon provinces of rural Utah.

I’m heading for Manti, the home of a polygamous group called the True and Living Church of Jesus Christ of Saints of the Last Days (TLC), led by the prophet James D. Harmston. Now in his sixties, Harmston has built himself quite a reputation over the years. Former followers describe him as a shrewd narcissist who considers himself the reincarnation of Joseph Smith, a living messiah. In 1998, he was sued by a couple of ladies who claim he swindled them out of $287,000, a case summarized by the head- line “Two Women Sue Church When Christ Fails to Appear.” (The lawsuit fizzled out in the end, with no clear guilt established on Harmston’s part.) And by several accounts, he has a prophet’s penchant for young girls. In 2006, former polygamist John Llewellyn published a book called Polygamy’s Rape of Rachael Strong, arguing that twenty-year-old Rachael had been spiritually coerced into marrying Harmston, who at the time was married to Rachael’s mother.

Usually, bad publicity sends polygamist prophets scuttling for the shadows. But Harmston has displayed a rare taste for the limelight. In the late ’90s, he even allowed A&E to make a documentary about his church and consented to an interview. And he came across well on TV—gentle, ursine and approachable. But when I mentioned him to Anne Wilde of Principle Voices, she bristled. “Oh no, no, forget about him. He’s way out there on his own. You definitely don’t want him in your book at all.”

And that settled it—I had to track him down.

So I’m driving south out of Salt Lake City down the I-15, listening to some debate on NPR about Al Qaeda’s plan for an Islamic Caliphate, when about twenty miles out, the reception goes fuzzy—NPR’s frequency is swallowed up by Jesus FM. On either side lies a disheartening landscape of industrial parks and trucks upon trucks, massed militarily by the road. And the news crackles from “holy war” to “find Jesus,” from “radical Islam” to “heavenly Father.” I’m crossing a barrier here, piercing the veil like Patrick Swayze in Ghost. I’m entering what locals call “real Utah,” the farm- raised, fetus-friendly Utah that dismisses Salt Lake as a Gentile-infested Gomorrah.

The mountains are stunning out here—on the right day, under vast skies and cloudswirls, they look like rugged chocolate cake with frosting, the valleys gouged out by giant dessert spoons. But the human contri- bution to the vista is underwhelming. The clusters of box-fresh homes that developers love to build beside freeways peter out and give way to the occasional Home Depot or Comfort Inn until eventually you’re down to a bereft-looking barn every seven miles or so. Those magnificent desert skies are interrupted by signs fixed to shafts that jut into view like pop-up spam, the signs that blight all American freeways—Denny’s, Chevron, McDonald’s, La Quinta, Motel 6, Subway. They herald the approach of a small town that has been colonized by corporations. Freeways have become as sterile, anonymous and spatially dislocated as airports. The small towns have become the food courts.

The effect is compounded by the scriptural place names that Mormons are so fond of—names like Manti, Nephi, Orem and Enoch. I’m traversing through a Holy Land of Walmarts and parking lots. Canaan turns out to be a land of cheap burgers and the Denny’s Heartland Scramble. And flags. In Real Utah, every home and business trumpets its patriotism. It’s all flags and Mormon place names, national pride and religious zeal. The Promised Land indeed.

Coming off the I-15 at Nephi, the roads thin and wend through one drab hamlet after another. Some are the cute kind, with puppies and craft fairs, others are cluttered and unkempt, with fading signage and busted tractors on the lawn. On the way to Manti it’s mostly the latter—houses surrounded by rickety sprawl, cobbled fences, rusted pick-ups and seesaw trailers left chin-up on threadbare lawns. The streets are deserted. Motels advertise color tv, with each letter painted in a different color. Curves, the popular weight-loss franchise, is almost as big out here as McDonald’s, the popular weight-gain franchise.

Manti, however, is a postcard. There’s no clutter here, just a large white temple perched high up on a mound, keeping a matronly watch over the town. Mormons flock here every year for the Miracle Pageant, which celebrates the pioneer trek—but that’s not for a couple of months yet, so the town is eerily quiet. When I check into the Manti House Inn across the street from the temple, the receptionist tells me I’m her only guest.

“Now what are you doing here?” she asks. Her name’s Trish, she’s a bubbly woman in her forties. “Ooh, polygamy!” She grabs a phone book. “I’ll give you some people to talk to you. We had Jim Harmston come here the other night with some of his wives—I think it was one of their birthdays. They think he’s a God, but he’s just a sweet old man if you ask me. He always leaves a tip, you know. Have you talked to Rachael Strong? She’d be good. You know who she is, right? The Rape of Rachael Strong. That book.”

“Well, I’d like to, but I don’t know her number.”

“You won’t get it off anyone in the TLC! But people who’ve left might talk to you. There’s the Harpers. They’re divorced now, and I think she’s living out in Virginia. But here’s her number. Hey, I’ll talk to you if you want—I was one of two wives. Yeah, that didn’t work out, ha ha! I’ll say. It’s not for everyone.”

We chat for a while, Trish and I, and I’m happy to have found a pal so quickly. Small towns can be lonely places for a stranger, given that every- one knows everyone else already and, this being Utah, there’s no bar to break the ice. So I tell Trish my plans, sparing none of the details. I tell her that I’m here to try to meet Jim Harmston, but the only contact name I have is Merrill Jensen [not his real name]—he’s the guy that answers the emails on the web- site (the website has since been taken down). So I wrote Merrill a letter and we chatted on the phone and he said he would introduce me to Jim if he felt comfortable. So tonight, I’ve got an appointment at the Jensen house. Quite excited about it, actually.

“I haven’t heard of Merrill Jensen,” says Trish, thoughtfully.

“He makes harps, apparently. Apparently there’s a big demand in the next life, what with all those angels.”

“Ha! Do you like toffee? We’ve got loads. Grab some toffee and I’ll show you around.”

She introduces me to the girl doing the washing up and the girl doing the laundry. A couple of guests have popped in for tea and she says, “Meet Sanchez, he’s doing a book about polygamy!” It’s all very chummy. And by the time I’m in my bedroom, I’m beaming. I like Manti. I like small towns in Utah. I’ve got a pocket full of toffee and a new friend called Trish. Time for a nap I think, before dinner.

When I first spoke to Merrill on the phone, he gave me the usual spiel— “we don’t like talking to outsiders, we’re very private,” and so on. But then we chatted for an hour. And by the end, he told me, “We haven’t done any interviews in eight years, so you would actually be the first in the new mil- lennium.” And he sounded as excited about the prospect as I was.

Certainly his eagerness is apparent from the moment we meet on his front porch. A large man in jeans and a flannel shirt, he ushers me in and tells his kids to run along. Would I like water? Would I like to talk at the table or on the sofa? Perhaps we should go over some background first before getting into details? I pick the sofa, and one of his daughters brings me a glass of water. And immediately Merrill sets about a rudimentary his- tory lesson—the origins of Mormonism, the Manifesto, the birth of fundamentalism. He has a schoolmasterly way about him, punctilious about semantics. He chuckles at his own observations as though he just came up with them.

*Not his real name.

“We don’t refer to ourselves as fundamentalists,” he explains. “See, we don’t claim an authority back to the dispensation that was supposed to be given to John Taylor back in 1886. Our authority stems from angelic min- istrations in fairly recent times to our prophet and leader, Jim Harmston.”

I want to ask him what a ministration is—it sounds medical, or clerical, or something to do with soup. But a woman has appeared to our left, a squirming, uncomfortable presence. She’s trapped between not wanting to interrupt and an obligation to say hello—a pincer of politeness.

“This is my wife Natalie,” says Merrill, dismissively. I stand to shake her hand, but she just stands there, smiling awkwardly.

“We’re just doing a bit of background here,” Merrill says, filling the silence. “So . . . how are the kids?” But Natalie’s frozen, speechless—her smile as pained and awkward as Carleen’s from the Kingstons. “Well, you can stay or you can go,” he says, releasing her with a shrug. She leaves at once.

“So anyway,” he continues. “Joseph Smith received divine visitation by John the Baptist—and Peter, James and John, who were resurrected as angels and came in person to give him the Priesthood. Our authority stems from similar angelic ministrations to our prophet and leader, Jim Harmston.”

“So Mr. Harmston isn’t a follower of Joseph Smith, but a prophet of equal standing.”

“That’s correct. Four angels came and instructed him that they were to be referred to as Moses, Enoch, Abraham and Noah—four of the grand patriarchs of the Old Testament. This was in November 1990. He was at home, here in Manti. He was taken into a room, which was totally light everywhere, but there was no light source like there is here. He had a cog- nizance of which way was in front of him but he could see all the way around—which, by the way, is what happens in near-death experiences. And then these four men, who all looked the same but had distinct identi- ties, they came from the four corners and laid their hands on his head.”

It’s a bold claim, and one that Merrill makes with pride. But there’s something endearing about his enthusiasm. It’s his convert’s zeal. He wasn’t raised in polygamy; he chose this life himself, sacrificing his old life for a new one. And now he wants to show off how far he’s come. “Only five or six men in the group actually practice polygamy,” he chuckles. Yes, and he’s one of them.

This is all too new for Merrill to feel jaded. He’s only been living polygamy since 2004, and he’s fifty-four at the time of our interview. He married Natalie in 1998 and Noralyn* six years later. They’re forty-four and forty-eight, respectively. “It’s not easy, this principle,” he says, cheer- fully. “We’re all stressed to the limit, but that’s how we grow—it’s like weight training.” At first they all tried living together, but that didn’t work. “Noralyn is very meticulous and detailed, but Natalie is a bit whatever about some things.” So now the wives have separate living quarters, with Noralyn’s kitchen and bedroom up front and Natalie’s at the back—two homes under the same roof—and John’s workshop, where he builds his harps, farther back still.

They seem a little old for such a radical change of lifestyle, but this is often the way with converts. They emerge wounded from Mormon marriages and turn to their religion for consolation, only to find that the church has hidden whole chapters of doctrine. And the discovery inflames them—these missing chapters must be the answer, their hope for rescue.

Merrill’s journey down that road began at forty-four, during what he calls “the most difficult year of my life.” It was spring of 1997, and he was married to his first wife, a French woman. They were devout LDS Mor- mons and he was living and working in California as an air force engineer. But his life was falling apart. His marriage had long been disintegrating as had his trust in the church, and he had begun to discover these suppressed teachings about polygamy. It was around the same time that he found the website for the TLC. It possessed him. “I just became on fire, reading this stuff,” he says. “I felt I had the spirit.”

Within less than a year, he dismantled his whole life—he left the church, quit his job, left California and divorced his wife. Then he moved to Manti, to the court of the new messiah, Jim Harmston, and even persuaded his mother to join him—“my brothers have never forgiven me.” It was a harrowing time. His sister died that year, and his ex-wife threatened him with never seeing his children again. He still has strained relationships with the children from his first marriage. But the upheaval and trauma only fortified his faith.

It’s the typical convert story, for men at least. But accelerated. First the disillusion with the church, then the intense zeal for the new doctrine, the sense of scripture as a vortex of dogma sucking him in, closing off all exits, slamming all the doors behind him. The old life disassembled by excommunication, divorce, the sale of a home and the estrangement of family. Then the rebuilding, brick by fundamentalist brick, the sense of resolve only stiffened by the economic hardship and the social alienation that comes with the cult life, until finally the convert looks back over his previous life and revises his past to suit the narratives of the present— committing the same sin as the Mormon Church, the discovery of which began the whole cycle in the first place.

For Merrill, as hard as it’s been, it’s all been worth it, because he knows for certain that Jim Harmston is the messiah—it says so in Isaiah.

“It’s prophesied that the Messiah will come in great power and save God’s people and destroy their enemies,” he says. “We believe that James Harmston is that leader. And you must understand, other people in the Gathering came to that realization before Jim did. He was not real excited when he found out.”

I can see how Merrill would “realize” that the man for whom he’d given up his life was in fact the savior of all humanity. But I’m impressed at Harmston’s cleverness in making his followers believe that this was their idea and not his. There’s something messianic about that alone. When 150 people insist that you have special powers, then by some definition, clearly you do.

The presence on Earth of a living messiah becomes a lot more plausible once you buy into the belief in an imminent apocalypse, because Isaiah talks about the destructions too. And the TLC seems particularly doom- centric. For Merrill, the end is so nigh it’s scarcely worth setting the video. He sees the end wherever he looks—on TV, on billboards, on the news. God’s laws aren’t being obeyed, so in a giant celestial tantrum, He’s going to trash the place and start over.

“First, God will bring in the Assyrian,” he says, “which is a metaphor for an invading force that God will use to chastise people. And when that’s over, God will destroy the Assyrian, and Zion will be established. It says

‘the slain of the Lord will be many.’” Evidently, only the TLC in Manti will be spared. They are the Lord’s people, and their leader Jim will protect them. In Jim they trust.

“He’s not a dynamic speaker with all the oratory tricks,” Merrill says. “But you’ve never heard anyone so eloquently get to the meat of some- thing. And he does make actual prophecies, unlike some other so-called prophets! When my mother came here for the first time, she committed to baptism, so I said to him, ‘My mother will be here next Saturday to get baptized.’ And he said, ‘No, she’ll chicken out.’ And she did!”

“Does that count as an actual prophecy?”

“Of course! He predicted something and it was true.”

“It sounds like a hunch or a guess to me. We all do that from time to time.”

“That’s correct also. But you have to know how this calling came about to fully understand. Before he was visited by angels, Jim had several very important spiritual experiences.” Merrill stops and adjusts himself in his seat. He’s not sure whether to tell me this stuff, whether it’s a pearls-and- swine scenario. But he can’t resist.

There was the time, for example, in a restaurant in Salt Lake, when “all of a sudden his mother, who had been killed in a car crash a year or two before, is standing before him and giving him instructions.” It’s always instructions with these angels. “And one other time—these are very sacred special things right here, but I’m just telling you in order to give you some perspective,” Merrill says, all sotto voce and conspiratorial. “Another time, Jim was given the gift to know the inner thoughts of the people around him. And it was given in such a way that he couldn’t pick and choose or tune it out. So he’d go near somebody and he’d know immediately what they were thinking and feeling.”

“Did he use his power on you?”

“I don’t think so. This was before I knew him. He was working as a businessman at the time. He was a very successful developer, we’re talking millions of dollars. But when he went to work he knew what his business partner was thinking. He’d pull up next to people at traffic lights—same thing. And largely the things he saw were vile. The private thoughts of men are a terrible thing. So he basically spent three days in the park alone so he wouldn’t have to be plagued by this. He prayed to God that this thing be taken from him. And after three days it was. However from time to time he still has this gift given to him in times of appropriate need. I can see it reflected in his eyes in certain situations. I’ve never seen a man more able to discern character than he is.”

“Merrill, I’ve got to meet this man. He sounds incredible. You hear about people who have these gifts, but to actually meet someone in the flesh...”

Merrill umms and ers. “Well, it’s possible, sure. I think you’re genuinely interested in what we’re doing here and you have an open mind. Tell you what, why don’t you come over tomorrow morning? I’m teaching a trig class around ten in the morning. You can see how we educate our children in the TLC. Then we can give you a tour of the assembly room and you can meet Dan Simmons, our church president.”

“Great.”

“And after that, depending on how that all goes, I can introduce you to Mr. Harmston. Then it’s up to him if he wants to talk to you or not.”

I’m so close, I can smell it. My first prophet! My first miracle worker and magic man! All those months driving up and down the I-15, all those Subway sandwiches and shit motels, the forced smiles and mixed socks, the move to America, the years of college, the superpower books I read at the library as a kid—it was all going to pay off. Me and the messiah, one on one.

Hallelujah. I love Manti.

I’m there at ten sharp. It’s me and two sixteen-year-old boys, Jacob and Matthias, sitting at a cleared table in the middle of Merrill’s living room, our notebooks out and pens at the ready. Merrill wipes the white board clean and introduces me.

“This is Sanjiv, he’s from London. He’s writing a book about polygamy and he wants to see how polygamists do trigonometry!” We all laugh. “I told him that our lives are pretty boring, but he doesn’t believe me. So let’s see if I can’t prove him wrong!” He’s loving it. It’s the Merrill show. “I was explaining to Sanjiv last night that we don’t usually let media report on us because they’re so prejudiced. We’ve been quite badly burned by the media. That’s why you’ve never read anything about the TLC for the last eight years. But I met with Sanjiv last night and we’ve spoken on the phone, and he’s genuinely interested to see what our lives are like. So let’s just have a normal class. Just pretend he’s not there. Does that work for you?”

The boys nod. I nod. Everyone nods. Then the phone rings and Mer- rill stops. “Hold on a second.” And he retreats to the rear of the house to take the call. When he returns, minutes later, he’s glaring at me. “Okay, we’re going to have to stop this whole thing right here. You have to leave.”

“What?”
“No more interviews. We can’t continue this. You have to leave.” “What happened? Who was that on the phone?”
“Did you talk to a girl called Angie?”
“Angie?”
“You’re staying at the Manti House Inn, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you talked to someone called Angie there.”
“No I didn’t, I talked to Trish.”
“Yes, and you also spoke to Angie. She says that you are here to do a sensationalist, anti-polygamy book and you were asking for numbers of people who have left our group. So our interview is over. That’s all I have to say. Now you must leave.”

“B-but wait a minute. This isn’t true! I talked to Trish and then I talked to you. That’s it! I don’t know anyone else from the group.”

“Have you spoken to Rachael?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s not what I’ve been told. You have to understand, there are

people who have left who will give you a very different and frankly a very false perspective. Have you spoken to a boy called Jacob?”

“No.”

My mind’s racing. What’s happening here? Who’s Angie? Is “Angie” Trish’s real name? Is Trish a member of the TLC? Who’s Jacob? Who just called him now? Why doesn’t Merrill trust me anymore?

“Look, Merrill, I don’t know what’s going on here, but you know where I’m coming from. I’m not an anti-polygamist. I don’t believe polygamy should be a crime. I believe it should be demystified. We discussed all of this.” I’m scrabbling for a hold, the rocks are loosening.

“I’ve been told that you’ve misled me,” he says, grimly. “Was that Angie that called just now?”

“No, it was Jim Harmston. He has spoken with Angie.” His boot heel is poised over my fingers.

“But I never spoke to Angie!” Fingernails scraping down the cliff face. “I spoke to Trish and she recommended that I speak to lots of different people and she gave me some numbers. But I haven’t rung any of them. I just accepted her help in the spirit in which it was given.”

“So you’re saying that Angie is lying?”

“I don’t know who Angie is!” My branch is breaking, the rope’s unraveling. Either Angie’s lying, Jim Harmston’s lying or I am. And by defending myself, I’m attacking one of them. I’m screwed.

“You need to leave. I’ve already said too much. You just need to leave.”

It’s the Vermillion Cafe all over again—the fat girl’s sniggering, the patrol car’s circling. The trig students watch me stand up and grab my bag. But I can’t just walk out. I need some sort of an exit. “You tell me that your prophet can read hearts and minds,” I say, a little louder than expected. “Well, if that’s the case, why doesn’t he read mine? I’ll tell you why—because if he sat there and told me I had a conversation with Angie, then I would know for sure that he was a false prophet. He’d understand that I’m telling the truth, goddammit.”

I make for the door and struggle with the latch. It’s all going wrong. Merrill has to come and help. He seems to pity me somewhat. “What I’m hearing from you and what I’m hearing from Jim just doesn’t add up,” he says. “Who knows what he’s basing his knowledge on right now?”

As I turn back to say good-bye, I see Natalie at the end of the room, looking alarmed. Jacob and Matthias staring. Merrill’s standing at the door, his hands on his hips and his head tilted to one side, a rather fey pose considering the tension of the moment.

“Good-bye Merrill.”
“Good-bye Sanjiv.”
And the door smacks shut behind me. Walking to my car, listening to

the pebbles crunch underfoot and my short quick breaths, all I can think is, “Shit, I shouldn’t have said ‘goddammit.’”

On the drive back to the Manti House Inn, I’m fuming. I pushed the boulder up the hill and some fucker pushed it back down again. And I need to know who. Trish can sort this out. She’ll know who Angie is. I can’t leave Manti like this.

So I march back into the Manti House Inn and find Trish on reception, sunny as ever. “Hiya, Sanjiv! You’re back for more toffee, I know you are.”

“Trish, someone’s been telling lies about me and I don’t know who it is. I feel like I’m in a fucking Kafka novel, excuse my French.” I tell her the whole story, how I got kicked out of the house, falsely accused, the whole thing. And she smiles. “Now you know what it’s like in polygamy. These people have secrets you know, if you start poking around . . .”

“But who’s Angie?”

“You met her last night. She was the one doing the dishes. She’s one of Jim’s wives, basically. I’m not supposed to say, but she has a secret, and Angie’s secret could ruin the TLC. The whole thing could fall apart.”

“What secret?”

“I can’t say. It’s too big.”

“Did you talk to Angie after talking to me last night?”

“Oh, we talked for a good hour. She said, ‘He’s here to talk to Rachael, I know it. He’s going to write one of those antipolygamy books full of lies.’ I think that’s what she told Jim.”

“And Jim believed her.”

“Angie’s a queen in that group. Whatever she wants, she gets.”

“Is she here?”

“No, she gets here at 4 pm.”

I look at the clock. “Four! That’s five hours away. Can I call her at home?” “I can’t give you her number, I’m sorry. Here, try some of this fudge. Take as much as you like . . .”

Five hours to kill in Manti. I try watching TV in my room, but I keep pacing around, replaying the scene in my head. I try driving around town and traipsing around the shops, but it’s no good. I’m a duck moving across a still pond—apparently calm on the surface, but paddling away furiously below the water. Why would Angie lie about me? Why didn’t Trish tell me about Angie before? How can I salvage this?

I head for the library and for a couple of hours I write a letter stating my case—one part indignant and one part conciliatory. Figuring this might be my last shot at the prophet, I decide to hand-deliver it to his home, a little green house opposite the TLC’s assembly building. So I’m standing there, ringing his bell as it begins to snow around me. The wind chimes are chinking and I’m preparing my lines—“Hello, Mr. Harmston, I think there’s been a misunderstanding . . .”

Eventually a small, crinkled woman comes to the door, smiling. “Hello, I’m Karen.” She says she’ll take the letter for Jim. “He’s out now.” Of course he is.

At 4 pm sharp, I head back to the Manti House Inn to confront Angie. There’s no sign of Trish, just a couple of girls in the kitchen, one of them sitting up on a worktop eating ice, the other wiping down a surface.

“Are you Angie?”

“I might be,” says the girl with the rag in her hand. She’s pretty and petite, with dark brown eyes and big lashes.

“I’m Sanjiv. I think we have something to talk about?”

“Do we?”

“Do you want to go somewhere private to talk?”

“No, we can talk right here.”

“Okay, then. Did you tell Jim Harmston that you had a conversation with me yesterday? About my book.”

“Uh-uh. I didn’t call Jim. Why would I say I had a conversation with you when I didn’t?”

“That’s not what Merrill Jensen said.”

“Oh, Merrill Jensen, I wouldn’t believe him. Why are you talking to him? He’s just trying to flaunt his family because he’s got two wives. But he’s a bad example of polygamy. He’s very arrogant.”

“He says Jim called him and said that you spoke to him about me. You said I was writing a negative book about polygamy.”

“Well, are you?”

“No.”

“Are you here to talk to Rachael?”

“No, I don’t know how to get in touch with her.”

“What’s your book about anyway?”

So I give her the pitch. And at every step, she questions my motives, my honesty, my credentials. “What makes you different than other journalists?” “How can you write about this if you haven’t got any faith yourself?” “Why do you care, what’s your agenda?” And she rejects my every answer. It’s exhausting. I’m doing a backfoot jig here, doing all the talking while she bats back everything I say with a skeptical spin. The portcullis is up. The crocodiles in the moat are snapping.

“Can I call you sometime?” I ask. “I want to continue this conversation.”

“No.”

“Is email better?”

“No.”

“Well . . . do you want to talk to me again, or are you done?”

“I don’t mind talking to you. If I’m here when you come back and if I’m not busy working, we can talk then.”

“But Angie, I’ve come here from L.A. That’s six hundred miles away. I can’t just come up on the off-chance that you’re here.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“Can I at least leave you my details?”

“You can do whatever you want.”

So I write them down on a piece of paper and hand them to her. But instead of taking the note, she turns around and walks away. “Leave it on the side.”

My hope shattered, I leave Manti, still none the wiser as to how things took such a bizarre turn.

Then a few days later, the emails come flooding in. Four in a day, long urgent letters, all from Angie—full name, Angelinna Mower. This time her tone is warm and confessional. She apologizes for her attitude, for causing me inconvenience, and she wants me to forgive her.

“I had the opportunity to read the letter you wrote to Jim,” she writes. “I thought that it was very well written and seemed sincere. I do not intend on staying in the situation I am in and so I am feeling extremely insecure about my circumstances at the moment. You see, I am only 25—I turn 26 in September. According to law I was a ‘Child bride.’ I have spent 50% of my life living this way. I risk a tremendous amount just by speaking with you over the email.”

It seems beneath all that bristle is a nervous and sensitive young mother on the verge of a momentous decision. Angie doesn’t only want to talk. She wants to leave Jim and the TLC and escape to California.