Held Hostage: Video 
The Fire That Time: Slideshow 
Behind the Lines: Podcast 
The Fire That Time
Fifteen years ago this month, the eyes of the world were focused on Mount Carmel, a tiny community outside Waco, where FBI, ATF, and local law enforcement found themselves in a headline-making standoff with the Branch Davidians, a religious sect led by a guitar-strumming high school dropout named David Koresh. The end was undeniably tragic, but the events that precipitated it were disputed—and as nearly two dozen participants in the 51-day saga told me recently, they remain so today.
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Sage Time passed, and David was upstairs praying. Noon came and still nothing had happened. We had more than one hundred people who were supposed to come out in three-minute intervals, so we needed to start moving. David’s top lieutenant, Steve Schneider, kept assuring us that everything was on track. He was telling us how the kids were all lined up and ready to go. He said that they had their winter jackets and their mittens on and were carrying some puppies in a box. But nothing happened. All of a sudden, a lightbulb went on that we’d been had. Steve either did not know that the deal was off or he was a very skillful liar, because he seemed genuinely embarrassed about the whole thing. It was getting dark when he finally went upstairs to talk to David. He came back and explained that David had said that God had told him to wait.
“David Was At the Center Stage of the World’s Media . . .”
As nearly four hundred federal agents stood at the ready, a makeshift media encampment, nicknamed Satellite City, sprang up two miles away. Meanwhile, two men—Houston resident Louis Alaniz and an itinerant named Jesse Amen—sneaked past the FBI barricades in hopes of hearing Koresh’s teachings. The Branch Davidians welcomed them in and taught them about Mount Carmel’s ascetic lifestyle, where Bible study remained the focus of each day.
McLemore The networks arrived within hours of the raid. It might have been the first real cable-news media circus. We’ve had so many since then, but I guess that was the first. Over the first 24 hours, the media was pushed back further and further from the compound. We were told that it was for our own safety, because the Davidians had .50-caliber weapons that could reach us. From then on, all that we and the rest of the world could see was a long-distance view of the compound from more than a mile away.
Bobby Gilliam, 55, was the vice president of child care at the Methodist Children’s Home, in Waco, where many of the Davidian children lived for the duration of the standoff. He is now the organization’s president. TV news helicopters would fly over the Children’s Home, trying to get footage of the Branch Davidian children when they came outside to play.
Kenny Ray, 47, was a Texas Department of Public Safety sergeant who oversaw the seven roadblocks that the DPS set up around Mount Carmel. He is now a Texas Ranger in Tyler. People came to Waco from all over the country to see what was happening. They wanted to look around and take pictures. There were tourists and protesters—mostly libertarians and pro-gun types—and people who were just curious. Then there were folks who believed in Koresh. There’s one in particular I remember. He was in his late fifties, and he looked like a well-dressed businessman, with a coat and tie, driving a nice four-door sedan. He said, “I really, really need to get in and see Lord Koresh.” At first I thought there was going to be a punch line. But there was absolute sincerity on that man’s face. So I said, “Sir, you’re not going to be able to go past this point. The public can’t enter here.” He said, “You don’t understand. He is my Lord, and I’ve got to get to him.”
Sage David was at the center stage of the world’s media and he ate it up. This was his launchpad to everlasting fame. He had been some obscure, wackadoo preacher on the high plains of Texas, and now all of a sudden he was, you know, the “messiah.”
Sam Howe Verhovek, 48, was a national correspondent for the New York Times based in Houston. Now living in Seattle, he is at work on a book about aviation history. There were reporters and photographers and video crews from all over the world. Many of us asked the federal authorities if we could go in there and talk to the Davidians and to Koresh, but we were told no, that we couldn’t possibly do that, because they couldn’t guarantee our safety. So we all shared a keen sense of frustration that no matter how close we were, we couldn’t breach that physical divide—to reach, literally, the other side of the story.
Doyle There was no way of communicating with the outside world after the first day or so. The FBI closed that down real quick. The only outgoing line went to the negotiators. All the American public knew about us was what the FBI told them, which was that we were a “cult” and that we lived in a “compound.” As long as we were seen as a threat, then the situation was justified. The fact of the matter is that Mount Carmel has been misrepresented for years, long before David. When I first came to Texas, back in the sixties, rumors were being thrown around town that we had a nudist colony. There were accusations of child abuse down through the years. People said David was brainwashing us through deprivation and giving us only a cupful of peanuts a day.
Lynch The sheriff’s office had gone out there on several occasions when there were reports of gunfire. They had a shooting range out there, so that wasn’t unusual. We also went out there with Child Protective Services. It’s my understanding that CPS never found anything because they never got past the entrance. They never got to sit down and do an in-depth investigation.
Thibodeau Mount Carmel was a very monastic place. We lived in another time—an easier time, a better time. We didn’t have running water or most modern conveniences. But in a lot of ways, it was a very satisfying life. David’s message was incredibly deep, and it rang true with me. The more I learned, the more I felt like I was going through a transformation. I remember thinking, “These are mysteries that people have wanted to understand for centuries, and here I am understanding them.”
Matteson David opened up the Bible to us. Sometimes he spoke so fast during Bible studies that I could hardly keep up with him. He was very intense. One time I sat and listened to him teach a Bible study for eighteen hours. I hated it when he stopped.
Louis Alaniz, 39, was a long-distance telephone service salesman in Houston. He is now an air-conditioning repairman in Westlake, Louisiana. I was sitting on the bus one day when I picked up a newspaper and saw a picture of the compound. I started praying about it, and I said, “God, if it’s your will, you provide the way.” I took a Trailways bus to downtown Waco and asked someone where the place was at. A man gave me a ride into the country, and from there it was probably only about two hours’ worth of traveling on foot. It wasn’t hard to get in. I just went through the woods and hid, and right at dusk, I ran across that open field and walked straight up to the compound. It had so many bullet holes in it it looked like a celestial star map. No one saw me until I knocked on the front door, and then a helicopter hit me with a spotlight. I started yelling, “Let me in! Let me in!” and someone finally opened up the door. Everyone inside wanted to know how I got there, and I was like, “Hold up, man. I just want to know—which one of you is David?”
“ . . . WE WERE PLAYING RIGHT INTO THEIR HANDS.”
Desperate to win the trust of the Davidians and secure the release of more children, the FBI’s negotiation team sent in cartons of milk, a suture kit for Koresh’s wounds, and videotapes about themselves and their families. All told, negotiators engaged in 754 phone conversations with the Davidians. Meanwhile, the bureau’s tactical unit—the Hostage Rescue Team—pushed for a more aggressive approach. Its assault and sniper teams kept vigil over Mount Carmel, and as talks wore on, they adopted a confrontational stance that was at odds with negotiators’ conciliatory tone. Koresh, who was on the mend, continued to tell negotiators that God was telling him to wait. Waco, the joke went, stood for “We Ain’t Coming Out.”
Sage The last child to come out of the compound left on March 5. Many of the kids who remained inside were David’s own children. We continued to press him for their release, and finally he said, “Hey, you don’t understand. These are my kids, and they’re not coming out.”
Doyle The FBI bugged everything they sent into the building—the coolers of milk for the kids, the suture kit. One of our guys had an uneasy feeling, and when he started digging around inside stuff, he found listening devices.
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