Held as a sex slave
Jessyca at 13, before the nightmare began
Wednesday 9th January 2008
The tiny room was sweltering and dimly lit.
'Cindy!' a man yelled, shaking me. 'Wake up!'
Who the hell is Cindy? I wasn't sure of anything any more. Except that every time that door opened, I was in for it again.
My hands were shackled to the grubby bed by a chain, and I saw my Dad's neighbour, Steven Oliver, 38, unbuckling his belt. Please no, not again. But moments later, Steven was forcing himself on me. I shut my eyes and tried not to gag at the smell of stale sweat and dirt…
It was hard to believe that just weeks before, I'd been a normal, 13-year-old. My name was actually Jessyca, and I lived with my mum, Monica Bourget, then 34, and brothers Jeremy, 14, and Carey, 9, and spent every other weekend with my dad, Dale Mullenberg, 38.
Back then, I virtually lived at the library, and I loved writing stories. So I was chuffed when Dad's mate, Steven, offered to help me. He ran a creative writing workshop and said I was very talented. I'd known him since I was 7, when he'd lived next door to us in Altoona, Wisconsin. I thought he seemed nice, but Mum wasn't keen.
'That bloke's creepy,' she'd said.
Two years later, we moved to Steven's Point, Wisconsin, 130 miles away, and he followed us. Mum was furious and told him to stay away. So Steven moved to a mobile home opposite my dad's place in nearby Eau Claire.
'He's stalking us,' I heard Mum tell my stepdad, Jake, then 31.
But he seemed OK to me.
Until one afternoon, in February 1994, when I went to his caravan to show him some stories I'd written. As I sat down next to him, Steven pushed me backwards, his hands groping at my chest.
'What are you doing?' I yelled, wriggling free.
'Shh, Jessyca,' he smiled. 'It's our secret.'
Back home at Mum's, I felt sick with shame. But I didn't want to upset her, so I kept quiet and tried to stay away from Steven. It wasn't easy. Whenever I visited Dad, he'd try to find ways to get me alone and abuse me.
Almost 18 months later, on 16 September 1995, Dad had a surprise for me.
'Steven told me a publisher is interested in you,' he said. 'He's going to drive you to their offices in Madison. Isn't that great?'
As Dad held Steven's car door open for me, I'd never been so scared in my life.
Madison is 179 miles from Eau Claire, and it's a two-and-a-half-hour drive. But four hours later, we were still travelling.
Feeling tired, I dozed off. Big mistake. When I woke up, my arms were tied behind my back, and my feet bound to the seat.
'Mum!' I screamed. 'Dad!'
'I'm your Dad now, Jessyca,' Steven whispered.
Shocked and scared, I couldn't utter another word. Then we pulled up at Kansas City Airport.
'Keep quiet,' Steven hissed as we checked in, flashing a knife in his holdall.
I don't know how he managed to get it past security, but I was so terrified, I did as I was told. After landing at Bush airport, in Houston, Texas, he drove us to a motel. Nearly 1,300 miles away from home, I was terrified. Steven had got a job as a painter at the motel, lying to the manager that my mum had just died.
'She's very upset,' he whispered, as the manager looked at my tearful face.
We were given a small room in an abandoned wing of the motel. It was bare except for a bed and a telly.
'Get in here!' Steven shouted from the bathroom, where he was waiting with a sharp pair of scissors and a bottle of brown hair dye.
'Your name is Cindy Johnson,' he told me, getting to work.
Afterwards, he looked happily at my short, dyed hair.
'You're my little girl now,' he said.
But he didn't act like a dad.
'I've got a surprise for you,' he announced that night, switching on the telly. It was a programme of a woman performing a sex act on a man. I'd never seen anything like it, and I turned away from the screen.
'Do that to me,' he ordered gruffly, unzipping his jeans.
That was the first of many times he abused me. Each day was the same. Steven got up at dawn and forced himself on me. Then he'd check with the hotel reception that no phone calls had been made from the room, and scan the motel car park for registration plates from my home state and the surrounding areas. When he was happy there wasn't one there, he'd chain or tie me to the bed all day while he was out at work.
The only time he'd untie me was when he was in the room with me, so there was no
way I could make my escape. Alone and scared, I'd dread the moment that he'd return
and attack me again.
As the days turned to weeks, Steven chipped away at me.
'Your mum and dad will be glad to be rid of you,' he told me over and over again. 'You're pathetic and ugly. You're nothing.'
It didn't take long for me to believe him. Would Mum and Dad even recognise the trembling, grubby shell I'd become? I coped by blocking everything out. Mum, Dad, my friends, my home. Even my own name.
Then, on 28 December 1995, I was tied to the bed, unaware Christmas had been and gone, when I heard the door open. Steven. But neither of the faces looming over me belonged to Steven. I was looking at two FBI agents.
'Don't worry, you're safe now,' one said, untying me. 'We've arrested Steven.'
'I want to go home,' I wept.
'Your mum's on her way,' he replied, and I was rushed to Bush airport to meet her.
'How long was I there?' I asked.
'Three-and-a-half months,' the agent told me.
It had felt like a lifetime.
'I remember being here with him,' I said as we got to the airport.
But when I was last there, I was an innocent young girl. Now, after being under Steven's control, I barely felt like a human being.
Then, I heard a familiar voice. 'Where is she?'
'Mum,' I wept as she appeared in the doorway.
'Thank goodness you're safe,' she sobbed, hugging me.
'I thought I'd never see you again.'
As we caught the next flight to Eau Claire, she explained she and Dad had gone to all the newspapers, and handed out hundreds of leaflets. My story had even been featured on the country's top real-life crime show.
'The motel's restaurant manager spotted you on America's Most Wanted,' she told me.
Back home, I tried to get back to normal, but I didn't feel as if life could ever be the way it was.
'Do you want to talk, sweetie?' Mum would ask.
I just wanted to forget it all, but it wasn't that easy. I was picked on at school, and diagnosed with anxiety, depression and post-traumatic stress. I needed counselling and was put on antidepressants. But I'd survived so much already, there was no way I was giving up now.
Six months later, in June 1996, Steven Oliver appeared at Madison District Court.
'I want to go,' I told Mum.
I was scared, but I had to see him go to prison.
Steven pleaded not guilty, saying I lured him to Texas. But with Mum on one side of me, and Dad on the other, I watched as he was jailed for 40 years for kidnapping, sexual assault, child endangerment, and crossing state lines with a minor for sexual purposes.
Seeing his future taken away made me think about my own.
'I want to study law,' I told Mum.
My ambition was to help others just like I'd been helped, and last year, I graduated from the University of Wisconsin with a BA in psychology and criminal justice.
I've got a boyfriend, too, Curt Christianson, 36. We met in 2004, and moved in together last June. He's really supportive, and we're even thinking about children.
'You've come so far,' Curt keeps telling me. He's right, which is why I've decided to share my story now, 12 years after being rescued from that motel room. I want people to know I'm no longer that hollow shell of a girl, a victim of evil. I have a family and friends who love me, a fantastic boyfriend — and a future.
A part of me will always be haunted by what Steven did. But I'll keep fighting for a normal life, no matter how tough it gets.
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