Today, Pamela Jones is a self-made millionaire and CEO of a successful Minnesota-based cleaning company. But back in 2000, she was a member of a fundamentalist Mormon cult living on a rural compound in Mexico, called Zion’s Camp. Born into polygamy, she was one of 61 siblings, and had five sister wives, and nine children.
Jones was married at 15 to a husband who forbade her to have contact with outsiders, including her own family. She was told her throat would be slit if she tried to escape, but she did it anyway, bravely fleeing with her children. In The Dirt Beneath Our Door: My Journey to Freedom After Escaping a Polygamous Mormon Cult, out now, Jones tells the story of her liberation and how she ultimately built a new life for her family in the US. Here, in an exclusive excerpt, she tells the story of how her remarkable journey began.
I strapped Bethany, my youngest, at 20 months old, into the car seat, then slid behind the wheel, buckled up, and reversed. The sky was deep ebony and pockmarked with stars as the headlights rose up and over the dull adobe walls, then cleared the flat roof of the home I hoped I’d never see again.
My sons, Hyrum, 16, and Mosiah, nearly 13, in a white Toyota, dropped into line behind me as we drove one block, turned left, then two more blocks out of the compound and onto Federal Highway 10, the main road leading out of town and north toward the US border.
It was eerily quiet, with no traffic and the kids drowsing behind me, their little sandy and reddish-blond heads tipped toward their shoulders. I floored the gas as hard as I dared on this sun-bleached, potholed highway. I felt numb, my knuckles blanched white on the steering wheel. I didn’t know where or when we’d be stopped, or by whom—my husband, David, the Mexican authorities, or God—but I expected it. It was official: I was leaving Mexico with eight children, two vehicles, two tanks of gas, a five-dollar bill I’d found in my husband’s dirty laundry, and two credit cards I had no idea how to use.
By 10 am we reached Ciudad Juárez and the busy border crossing over the Rio Grande into El Paso, Texas. We drove a few blocks to the American consulate, a gray, fenced brick building along the dusty highway. I left my daughter Lucy, 14, in charge as I went inside, took a number, and waited for what seemed like forever to be called. All my children except one had been born in Mexico, like me, but we had legal status as “American citizens born abroad.” I had been naturalized as an American citizen at the age of 7, when we lived in El Paso, but because my husband and I lived so far off the grid, my children’s births hadn’t been properly recorded with the authorities, which meant they also needed to be naturalized before we could settle in America.
I’d contacted the consulate and collected this paperwork for months without David’s knowledge, helped by my father and Velma, the first of Daddy’s 11 plural wives.
At last, my number was called. Heart in my throat, I walked to the window. The agent was a pleasant Mexican woman who spoke perfect English. “How may I help you?” she asked. I cleared my throat but, terrified of speaking to strangers, barely mustered a whisper. “My name is Pamela Jones.” I showed her my driver’s license. “I’m here for my children’s naturalization documents.”
The lady returned with a manila folder with my name on the front. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Jones, but we haven’t received the documents establishing your proof of residency in the United States before your children were born.” She slid me a piece of paper that listed several documents: rental agreements, school records, certificates. I immediately recognized everything listed as items Velma had already faxed to the consulate weeks earlier. How could they not have received them?
“Did you bring these documents with you today?” the lady asked helpfully.
“No,” I mumbled in reply. How could I explain that Velma had already submitted them?
“All right, Mrs. Jones.” With a yellow highlighter, the woman circled a number on the bottom of the paper slip. “Here is our fax number. Once you’ve gathered the rest of the documents, just fax them here, we’ll process them and add them to your file, and when you come back next time, we can issue you the naturalization papers.”
My heart dropped to the floor. I was too devastated to speak as I grabbed the piece of paper and turned away. Without those papers, my children have no legal right to enter the US. I swallowed hard, pushing down my terror. What am I going to do? We can’t go back to Zion’s Camp—I could be killed, my throat slashed and my blood sprinkled on the soil as a “blood atonement,” a warning to other women about what happens if you try to leave the cult. Okay, God, I prayed. I’m putting it all on you. Our only hope is to cross the border illegally. I forced a brave face as I returned to the parking lot and quickly devised a new plan. Everything was different now—even if I managed to cross the border in the Voyager with the six kids, there was no way the boys could pass through the checkpoint in the truck. Hyrum didn’t have a legal US driver’s license, and neither boy had papers or ID.
“Okay, so listen carefully, guys,” I told the kids. “This is really important. The seven of us are going to cross the border in the van. Hyrum, you and Mosiah will stay behind on the Mexican side. Wait one hour, then drive to the border and get in line to go across. Make sure you stay in one of the outer lanes, furthest from the consulate. Then I’ll know where to find you.
Pamela Jones today.
“Meanwhile, once I’m over in the US, I’m going to park the van and Lucy will stay with the younger kids. I will walk back across the border into Mexico and find you in the line waiting to cross. Then I’ll get behind the wheel and the three of us will cross together.”
This plan was as crazy and dangerous as it sounded. My husband had always threatened that, if I ever tried to leave him, by the time I reached the US border, my mug shot would be plastered everywhere. I would be arrested and never see my children again. We’d been gone almost eight hours. Plenty of time for David to alert the authorities.
It was almost 4:30pm by the time the car in front of us passed through the checkpoint and we were waved to the front. My throat was dry and my hands shaking as I peered into the booth, terrified my photo would be plastered across the walls.
As the Border Patrol agent stuck his head through the window and shone his flashlight into the back of the van, I read the name tag on his uniform: “B. McGuire.”
“American citizens?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered, hoping my voice didn’t break. “All of you?”
“Yes.”
As I showed him my driver’s license, he quizzed the kids on the questions we’d rehearsed and they answered like troupers. He handed back my license. “Any perishable items you’re bringing into the United States?”
“Just a loaf of bread and a bag of oranges.”
“You can’t bring the oranges,” he warned. “No fruit or vegetables allowed.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realize.” I made a show of having the kids root for, find, and hand me the bag of oranges, which I surrendered to Agent McGuire. I had crossed the border before with David and memorized the drill: create a distraction with the oranges so they don’t focus on anything else.
It worked, because Agent McGuire waved us through the gate. In moments, we were over the Rio Grande and safe on US soil. But I wouldn’t celebrate until I had Hyrum and Mosiah here as well.
I drove one block, then parked on a quiet gravel road, shadowed beneath a spiny Afghan pine, and climbed into the back seat with the girls and Joshua. As I unbuttoned my blouse and nursed Bethany, I gave them their instructions. “Lucy, you’re in charge while I’m gone. Don’t make any noise, don’t get out of the van, don’t unlock or open the doors for any reason. Do you understand?” They nodded solemnly. “If you get hungry, there’s some bread.” I forced a smile. “Mama will be back soon with the boys. And then we’ll really start our adventure!”
Jones with her nine children at her daughter Bethany’s wedding in Minneapolis, October 11, 2021. Left to right: Hyrum, David Jr., Lucy, Jen, Joshua, Bethany, Pamela, Melanie, Pamela, Mosiah.
Locking the van behind me, I walked as fast as I could back to the crossing, this time entering through the pedestrian section. When I reached the front of the line, I couldn’t believe my eyes: there was Agent B. McGuire again, checking IDs and waving people through. How? Half an hour ago, he was checking cars down below—now he’s up here checking pedestrians? Of all the agents working today, what were the odds I’d meet the same one twice?
I pressed my face and hands against the floor-to-ceiling glass, looking down at the rows of vehicles, headlights glowing, lined up as far as the eye could see. And no sign of Hyrum’s white Toyota anywhere…
It was probably only 10 or 12 minutes—the longest of my life— before finally, there they were! I rushed toward the little white Toyota, nearly getting flattened by a semi-trailer. Its blaring horn rang in my ears as I got into the driver’s seat and the boys scooted over. “See, Mom? We knew you could do it.” Hyrum gave me a big smile, but I could see how relieved both boys were that I was back.
We were asked the same questions at the gate as before, the boys answered as I had coached them, and we engaged the same distraction with the second bag of oranges. But this time, I was selected for secondary screening and directed to drive off to the left, where the 12 lanes of traffic tapered down to two.
Please, God. Not this. I could literally see my freedom, just a few yards in front of me, disappearing. Had I been flagged as a fugitive? Was I about to be arrested? Meanwhile, my other children were parked on a side street in El Paso, it was almost nightfall, and I had no way to contact them.
“Don’t panic,” I told the boys. “Don’t make eye contact; don’t say a word. Let me do the talking. We’ll be fine.” I pulled up beside a table beneath the tin-roofed pavilion where a dozen other vehicles were being inspected. We got out as several Border Patrol agents began a thorough search. They popped our four suitcases, rifling through the kids’ clothes, underwear, pajamas; they emptied the glove compartment and fingertip-searched beneath the seats.
Suddenly one of the agents held a Ziploc bag up to the light. Inside was a little bottle of medicine for Bethany’s thrush. It must have slid under the seat when the boys were driving. “That’s for my baby,” I said quickly. “She’s with my husband and my other children. They crossed the border ahead of us.”
The agent allowed us to get back in the truck and motioned me forward to the next station. As I did, an agent exited the booth with a large German shepherd straining on its leash. As the agent neared, his short stature, blond crew cut, and military stance were instantly familiar. Agent McGuire. How was it possible? How could he be stationed in three different places, all in the same afternoon?
My whole body shaking, I prayed, harder than I ever had in my life. He motioned for me to roll down the window and as I did, he stuck his head inside, shining his flashlight on Hyrum and Mosiah. His face was so close to mine, I could smell his aftershave and the gel in his hair. Then he turned and looked me directly in the eye. “Well, well. You again,” he said. “You’re up to something.”
Copyright © 2025 by Pamela Jones. Adapted from The Dirt Beneath Our Door: My Journey to Freedom after Escaping a Polygamous Mormon Cult by Pamela Jones with Elizabeth Ridley, published with permission from Matt Holt Books, an imprint of BenBella Books, Inc. All rights reserved.
