Seductive Poison (49 page)

As I tried to acclimate to a free world, Leo Ryan was mounting a campaign against Peoples Temple. After the publication of my affidavit he had begun to receive more letters from the parents of members in Jonestown who had not heard from their loved ones in a long time. Grandparents were worried about their children and their grandchildren. Maria Katsaris’s father, Steven, also contacted Ryan, asking for his help in bringing his daughter home. Ryan called and asked to meet with me.

I met Congressman Ryan, the Democratic representative from California’s Twelfth District, on September 1, 1978, in San Francisco. I was anxious and shy. At first he acted as though he didn’t believe me. But once I began my story, he admitted that he had several constituents whose children were in Jonestown and that my
information corroborated theirs and confirmed his fears. He listened intently as I finished describing the conditions, the intimidation, the lack of food, and the weekly suicide drills we practiced in Jonestown.

“As a member of the House Committee on International Relations,” he explained, “I am considering leading a congressional delegation to Guyana …”

I wondered what that meant and if it would drive Jim into a frenzy.

“… and I want the State Department fully apprised of the appalling conditions in Jonestown, as your affidavit describes, where American citizens are being held against their will.”

Maybe he would meet with Mama and convince her to come home, I thought.

After several hours of conversation, the congressman requested that I fly to Washington and repeat my story to a congressional committee. On November 9, I flew to Washington, D.C., with Grace Stoen and Maria’s father, Steven Katsaris, to tell my story.

At last, someone had taken notice.

19
Descent into the Abyss

The air was chilly on the morning of November 13, 1978. The capital’s autumn leaves of reds, yellows, orange, and purples swirled around me as I waited for my ride. What if they didn’t believe me? Congressman Ryan had said that it was hard to believe. How was I going to convince the State Department?

A sleek black limousine pulled up slowly and stopped. The driver, an older gentleman with a dark olive complexion and wavy charcoal hair, walked around to open the door. I descended into the warm interior with soft and luxurious seats; a bright gold leaf blew in and settled on the armrest next to me. I felt like an impostor, an alien in a world I had once inhabited long, long ago. Although I was twenty-five, I still felt like a sixteen-year-old. My life had been on ice for nearly a decade.

The car turned and slowly pulled to a stop in front of a large building with colorful flags whipping about in the breeze. I waited where Congressman Ryan had suggested, just inside the doors. People were scurrying around me, down the stairs, in and out of the revolving door. Their casual air of freedom mesmerized me. What was it like never to have been weighed down with apocalyptic thoughts? Never to have been at the mercy of a tyrant? I envied their nonchalance and unshakable self-esteem.

I knew that my presence in D.C. would put me in potential danger. My thoughts traveled back to the first weeks after my escape, my fears of being followed, the phone calls at night with no one on the other end, my sense that my every move was being monitored.
Ryan’s husky voice interrupted my brooding. “How was your trip?”

“Congressman … um … Leo. …”

“Are you worried about convincing these old farts?”

“Well …”

“Don’t be. You’ll do just fine.”

How often I had heard those very same words from the officials at the embassy in Georgetown. He grabbed my shoulders and took my coat. We entered a dark hallway with a closed door every twenty paces, then turned down another hallway. Ryan waved to passers-by and stopped momentarily to chat with a couple of well-dressed women. Suddenly, a door opened and we entered an enormous wood-paneled conference room. A gigantic oval mahogany table occupied the center and about twenty maple-colored chairs were arranged around it.

Ryan positioned himself at the door to greet the distinguished officials he had summoned to attend my testimony. Gentlemen in pin-striped suits, pastel-colored shirts, and uniform white collars continued to file in. I felt homely and awkward in my dress and high heels. My stomach was churning and I prayed it wouldn’t growl. I sat down, in an attempt to conceal my angst. The men took my lead, set their Styrofoam cups, yellow legal pads, pencils, and copies of my affidavit on the table, and sat down.

I could see from their furtive glances that many of them were dubious. I imagined they were relieved that
their
daughters would never get themselves into such a ludicrous situation. I caught someone’s eye and smiled. But I felt defensive. I wanted them to listen and believe me. I wanted to scream that it could happen to anyone’s child.

Ryan began to speak.

“I first heard about the incredible and courageous story of Deborah five months ago when she made public her disturbing affidavit chronicling her life in Peoples Temple and recently in Jonestown. This document, which each of you now has before you, was also hand-delivered to your offices several weeks ago. I hope you took the time to read it. This eleven-page document, ‘Affidavit of Deborah Layton Blakey Re: the Threat and Possibility of Mass Suicide by Members of the Peoples Temple’ dated June 1978, was sent to you, as officials of the State Department, to various members of Congress, and was reported in the news.”

I surveyed the crowd apprehensively. They sat quietly, their eyes
focused on Ryan and then me. I tried to sit higher up in the enormous chair. They listened politely and sipped their coffee.

“And now Deborah,” Ryan reached his arm out to me and smiled benevolently, “will tell you the frightening details of life with the Reverend Jim Jones in Guyana. Please take notes.”

I rose up. Everyone was quiet … waiting. The silence reverberated in my ears. The corner of my upper lip began to twitch. I wished I hadn’t stood up. I began to talk, then sat back down on my leg to give me more height. My audience tilted their heads and scratched their temples in unison. I could tell from their puzzled looks and furrowed brows that they had not read my affidavit.

I spoke of my continued unsuccessful efforts to get word to my mother and brother in Guyana. The American Embassy was unhelpful, I told them, and why, after I had signed my testimony in the consul’s office in Georgetown, hadn’t an official immediately visited Jonestown? They had told me they would. Why, when they finally did condescend to visit the helpless inhabitants three months later, in August, hadn’t I been apprised of my mother’s and brother’s condition? Had the visitors even been able to see them? Had they even tried?

I described how my brother had been taken as a hostage to Guyana the day I’d arrived in America, in an effort to ensure my silence. I described the wild paranoia that Jim had infused into every fiber of each and every inhabitant. And, finally, I warned them of everyone’s mental instability. How I, too, had been crazed by misinformation, a lack of protein, a lack of sleep. I explained how I, like everyone else, had believed the American government was trying to invade the compound. We all believed we were the enemies of the United States Government.

“I was convinced that you, each one of you in this room, was conspiring to annihilate us. I heard what I believed to be your gunfire in the jungle.”

The genteel men smiled dismissively. When I finished, their questions were tame, docile, and shamefully ignorant.

“Why did you join?”

“Were your parents supportive?”

“Why didn’t you leave if you were unhappy?”

“Are you insinuating that the Reverend keeps the residents of Jonestown there against their will?”

I could tell they hadn’t heard a single word I’d said. They looked impatient, as if their thoughts were already elsewhere. I imagined
them contemplating their weekend plans—with whom they would have a round of golf, what movie they would see. They did not seem to be taking Congressman Ryan and me even the least bit seriously. How could I have failed to convey the gravity of this situation? Was it because most of the inhabitants were black that no one seemed to really care?

“Ya’ done good!” Ryan smiled as we headed back down the maze of corridors. He patted his suit pocket. “I’ve got the letters your siblings wrote to your mom and brother right here. I promise I will read the letters to each of them individually, and let them know they have a prepaid ticket home. Are you sure you won’t accompany us?

“I … I can’t … I’d be killed …” Or worse, I thought, drugged and imprisoned in Jonestown.

“Well … not to worry, Deborah. Everything is going to be just fine.” He squeezed me with an enormous bear hug. “I’ll call you the day I return.”

It was impossible for those who had never known fear or stared into the face of darkness and death to conceive of my dilemma. It was impossible for them to know what all of us had been through and to imagine the dangers still lying ahead in the jungle.

Mama, I thought, I’m so sorry. I thought I would have had her home by now. I had tried to get messages to her. I was doing everything I could think of to get her back. Why wasn’t I getting anywhere?

Ryan continued to hold my arm as he walked me to the rotunda. When I turned to hug him good-bye, I was startled by the sight of Teresa. She was entering the building with the Temple’s attorney. I stiffened. Her terrified eyes met mine. I wanted to run over to her and apologize, say that I had always cared for her, that I was forced to report on her. But instead, I looked away. I felt filthy, like a snitch going to the other side. Why did she look so frightened? Surely I had not scared her. She must have known I was going to be here. What was Jim up to? Was she here to discredit me or to kill me? Or had she defected? Never, I thought … never, not Teresa!

As I drove off in the limousine, I felt unsure of what I had done, afraid of what would happen, and miserably aware that I had just upset the order of my new life, that the life I had run from was catching up with me again. I realized no one, not even Ryan, understood that lives were truly in danger. No one was capable of understanding how malevolent Jim Jones had become and what kind
power he had over the inhabitants of Jonestown. Ryan seemed to view his forthcoming trip like any other business jaunt. No one took the time to seriously ponder and evaluate the disturbing story I had told. Not even Ryan recognized the true danger his investigation was creating for himself, his entourage, and for the people in Jonestown. I could not figure out what else I could say to make them see the potential for catastrophe.

20
Hope Extinguished
November 18, 1978

A chestnut-brown cockroach sneaked out from under the hallway carpeting as my keys jingled in the lock. I walked into the kitchen and set down my groceries. I wondered how Ryan and his entourage of aides and newspaper reporters were doing. They’d been in Guyana for five days. They’d probably seen the dances, the entertaining skits. I wondered if Jim had had flowers brought in from the capital and planted them around the radio room and the Pavilion to impress everyone. Since my defection Jim had probably allotted more money for the construction of new cottages, more wooden walkways, and maybe even a guest cabin with conveniences like a sink, water, and a mosquito net.

And then the phone rang. A shrill voice shouted at me. I hardly recognized my sister.

“Slow down, Annalis …” My heart was pounding. I caught only tidbits. What was she saying?

“Ryan’s been shot, his aide’s been wounded, several cameramen have been hurt …”

“Where, Annalis? In the capital? Where?”

“News is skimpy … At an airstrip somewhere in the jungle….”

“What? How?” My legs felt heavy and I slid down the wall to sit with my knees propped in front of me like a shield. “What about Mama?”

“Debs, get the hell out of there. No one is sure what happened. Maybe Mama is in the hospital. The reports say some people are in
Trinidad receiving medical care. Others are in the capital, but they don’t know who …”

“Annalis.”

“Leave! You’re probably on a hit list! The instigator of a congressional invasion. I will meet you in an hour in town at that little fruit stand you like. A friend’s offered her home. You’ll be safe there. The Temple won’t find you. Do not come here! They may have already started this way. I’ll call John at the conference. I’ll tell him not to go back to the house, but to come straight up here.”

I grabbed my new flannel nightgown, toothbrush, pair of jeans, toilet bag, and rushed out to the car. Throwing my bundle into the backseat, I looked over my shoulder and locked the doors. With disbelief and fear pulsing through my veins, I drove over the Bay Bridge listening to the radio for more news.

What was happening down there? Leo Ryan shot? Had Jim finally panicked? But why? Weren’t the mothers and children on a boat for Cuba? Hadn’t the Russians accepted the money and finally granted asylum to the encampment? Maybe nothing had worked and now Father had declared war against everyone. I chewed the inside of my cheek. Had I been listed as “fair game”? Had Jim assigned someone to find me and take me out?