Chapter One * Friday, December 1, 1995 It was Friday, December 1, 1995. I had been teaching physics at Nassau Community College for twenty years. December 1 could only mean one thing: the end of the fall semester was fast approaching. My typical workweek was four days of teaching, one day of research. In fall 1995, Mondays were my non-teaching days, and I spent them at the City College of New York, where I was a member of the Theoretical Condensed Matter Physics Research Group. I was fortunate that Nassau Community College was not a "publish or perish" institution. But I published anyway, simply for the joy of doing the research. I studied properties of crystalline materials, and I loved in particular the idea that so much could be explained by mathematics and logic. It was particularly exciting when, occasionally, I was able to use mathematics and general principles of physics to predict something that no one had ever predicted before, and even more exciting when the predictions were actually confirmed by further experiments. But I loved the work Tuesday through Friday as well. Even though it was standard practice to join with my colleagues to complain about the students, I could think of no career I would prefer to teaching. On Friday, December 1, I taught a morning laboratory class on "The Science of Light and Color," a course I specifically created for liberal arts students who wouldn't ordinarily take a course in Physics. It was very popular. I enjoyed teaching the material, and the students enjoyed studying it. In the afternoon, I met with my introductory physics class, a course somewhat like the one that convinced me to become a physicist in the first place. Unfortunately, my students didn't enjoy taking this course as much as I enjoyed teaching it. However, they were committed to passing, and my office hour after class was always filled with students who were filled with questions. The students left at about 3:30, and I prepared for the drive home. The college is in Long Island, about thirty miles east of our Manhattan apartment. The commute along the Long Island Expressway, nicknamed "the world's longest parking lot," could take forty minutes or it could take two hours. I had left my apartment that morning, as I did every teaching day, at 6:45 a.m. Although my Friday classes ended earlier than other days, by 3:30 I was definitely ready for the weekend. As I packed up my papers, I gave some thought to the evening. My husband, Mark, had left that afternoon for a conference at Harvard University. Mark taught at Baruch College in New York, and in recent years he had applied his knowledge of statistics to the study of health-care management. This weekend's conference was focused on health-care research. Mark's time was consumed with his teaching duties, his research, and his textbooks. He had coauthored several statistics books that were used at colleges and universities around the world. In fact, when my daughter Lori was living in El Salvador, people would ask if she was related to the Berenson of the "Berenson and Levine" statistics textbook they used at the university. So Mark wouldn't be there for dinner, and I had to make my usual Friday night decision, whether or not to go to dance class. I had studied modern ballet all of my adult life, certainly not to become a dancer, but simply to dance. There was something about using dance to create images or express emotions that I found enormously appealing. For several years I had been taking class at the Martha Graham School of Dance, two or three nights a week. That third "iffy" night was Friday. And on this particular Friday I decided to forgo the class for a long nap. It was about 6 p.m. when the phone woke me. My memory of the conversation is a bit fuzzy, perhaps because I had been sleeping but more likely because the gist of it was so disorienting. Conveyed by the Peru desk at the U.S. Department of State in Washington--and again by the U.S. embassy in Lima, Peru--the message, as I understood it, was that my twenty-six-year-old daughter had been arrested the previous day. Lori was being held at the antiterrorist police headquarters. The probable charge was treason. I found myself alone and in a daze, trying to make sense of it all. Things like this don't happen to my family, don't happen to me. I'm a physicist, an academic. I lead an organized, quiet life. I wasn't someone who received calls from U.S. government officials. But I had just spoken with Washington consular officer Marti Melzow, and she "patched me through" to Consul General Thomas Holladay and Consular Officer Julie Grant in Peru. That morning, Peruvian president Alberto Fujimori had waved Lori's passport on TV, and someone at the American embassy had seen it. The president of Peru was accusing my daughter of assisting a rebel group, Movimiento Revolutionario Túpac Amaru (MRTA), which had been involved in a shoot-out with police the night before. She faced charges of treason against Peru--even though she wasn't a Peruvian citizen. I needed to find a Peruvian lawyer to represent her. Embassy officials only had a list of lawyers who handled drug charges, not treason. They suggested I ask my friends if they knew any Peruvian lawyers. Ask my friends if they knew any Peruvian lawyers? That didn't make any more sense than accusations of treason or Lori assisting a rebel group. I had been told by Tom Holladay and Julie Grant that they visited Lori at the DINCOTE prison. DINCOTE (Dirección Nacional Contra el Terrorismo) are the Peruvian antiterrorism police. Lori explained to them that she had been on a bus when a plainclothes officer boarded and pulled her off. He didn't identify himself, and Lori struggled with him, thinking she was being kidnapped. She had been roughed up and was given first aid at DINCOTE. She asked Mr. Holladay to tell us she was okay and that she hadn't been harmed. She asked him to tell us not to worry. They gave me an emergency number, should I need it, because the embassy would be closed for the weekend. Tom Holladay even gave me his home phone number. I hung up the phone and stared into space. I was terrified. It was hard to believe that this wasn't a nightmare. I wanted to scream, because sometimes, in nightmares, when you scream you awaken. But I knew that I was already awake and that screams wouldn't help, and that, terrified or not, I had to focus on what to do next. Mark was at a conference dinner and wouldn't be reachable until much later that night, so my first call was to my daughter Kathy. Kathy was then a graduate student in Clinical Psychology at New York University and lived in Brooklyn. She is only two years older than Lori, and the two have always been very close. Even during the years that they were separated geographically, they kept close through letters. Kathy immediately came to my apartment, and we agonized over whether or not we should tell Mark anything that night. We decided it might be too painful to cope with this news while he was alone in Boston. It would be better to wait until the next morning, when he'd be able to catch a flight home. I spent the rest of the evening telephoning friends and relatives, looking for anyone who might know a Peruvian lawyer--although I couldn't imagine why any of them would. When it became too late to make further calls, I wandered around the apartment in a fog. This was the apartment where Lori grew up, and although she was thousands of miles away, she was everywhere. Shelves housed the clay sculptures Lori made as a child, walls displayed her needlepoints, cassette racks held the tapes of her playing guitar and singing, and there were photographs everywhere. There was six-month-old Lori, making funny faces for the camera, five-year-old Lori atop the Empire State Building with the World Trade Center in the background and the wind blowing her long hair across her face, and Lori in 1991 dancing with Mark at his fiftieth birthday party. I stopped in front of a picture of thirteen-year-old Lori dressed for the role of Vera in a school performance of Auntie Mame . She was wearing a powder-blue gown and a white boa, and held a champagne glass in her white-gloved hand. Lori loved performing in those junior high school shows, and in the chamber chorus in high school. But a glance at her bookshelf reminded me that music was just a diversion. The texts on cultural anthropology and indigenous peoples of the Americas reflected the adult Lori, who had decided to devote her life to issues of peace and justice. Lori had lived in Latin America on and off for seven years, and although the separation had been difficult and I often worried about the dangers she might encounter there, I knew that this was the only life she wanted. Lori was deeply affected by conditions of poverty and hunger, and refused to remain silent when she saw abuse or the denial of basic human rights. She had recently obtained press credentials in Peru in order to write articles about poverty and women's issues for two small magazines, and she was conducting interviews with members of the Peruvian government and other Peruvians. As exhausted as I was, I didn't sleep much that night. I was too frightened and there were so many questions. Why was she arrested? Did this have something to do with the articles she was writing or the interviews she was conducting? How could a U.S. citizen be accused of treason against Peru? How would I find a Peruvian lawyer? What airlines fly to Peru? How quickly can I arrange to go there? Who do I know who has political connections? Worst of all, I kept seeing Lori in prison. The only prison I could picture was from movies I had seen, and I imagined it was crowded, dark, and dirty. But she was in prison in South America, so rape, torture, and "disappearance" were also in my thoughts. She had told Tom Holladay she hadn't been harmed and that we shouldn't worry. But was she really "okay" or was she simply trying to ease our anxiety? It was true that the embassy officials said she looked all right. But they didn't know what she was supposed to look like. They didn't know her. How could they recognize the signs of tension or stress that Lori could never conceal from me? And besides, embassy officials had seen her hours ago. What had happened since their visit? What would happen over the weekend when the embassy was closed and no one would be there to check on her? I waited nervously for 5 a.m., when I would call Mark. * Saturday, December 2 to Tuesday, December 5 Mark was devastated by the news. In fact, on the plane ride home from Boston he feared that Lori was dead and that I had not wanted to tell him such horrible news by phone. He had heard news reports that there was a shoot-out in Lima and that several people had died. When he arrived home, he was relieved when I told him Lori was alive, but distraught at the thought of her being held by secret police in a regime known for its brutality. We spent that weekend on the phone trying to find anyone who knew a Peruvian lawyer. My neighbors came to help answer calls. Our friends and relatives called their friends and relatives. We were learning more about Peru, the kinds of things you don't read about in the newspapers. We heard from Peruvians who warned us about the horrors of the secret military tribunals that deny those accused any right to defend themselves. We were told that human rights groups had documented hundreds, if not thousands, of innocent Peruvians serving long terms under extremely harsh conditions after having been sentenced by those secret tribunals. We learned of the brutality of the Peruvian prisons, particularly the one in the DINCOTE headquarters. A representative of Amnesty International called to say that Peru is "a military dictatorship, thinly veiled as a democracy." Mark had brought home a copy of the Boston Globe that reported on the Lima shoot-out that was supposed to be somehow related to Lori's arrest. The embassy had made it clear to me that Lori was arrested while on a bus, not at this shoot-out. According to the article, five people--four rebels, and one policeman--were killed and nine were wounded during an eleven-hour police siege of a rebel hideout in the upscale La Molina neighborhood of Lima. The second-ranking commander of the MRTA, Miguel Rincon, was captured along with fourteen others. Hundreds of police and soldiers, backed by helicopters and armored vehicles, had surrounded the house, which police claimed held an arsenal of weapons. The rebels escaped and moved through six adjoining homes before their surrender was negotiated. No local residents were injured. The article identified the MRTA as the smaller of Peru's rebel groups, not to be confused with the more notorious Maoist Shining Path. At about midday Monday, I called Julie Grant at the embassy only to learn that she hadn't visited Lori since Friday and, incredibly, didn't plan to see her for a while. She explained that the embassy normally makes monthly visits to American citizens who are being held but who have not yet had a trial. When she had seen Lori on Friday, she left her card and told Lori to call if she needed anything. She also reminded me that we needed to hire a Peruvian lawyer, but when I told her that Mark and I wanted to come to Peru for that purpose, she discouraged us. I hung up the phone, completely bewildered. Given what I had heard all weekend, I couldn't believe that Lori would be allowed to call Julie Grant if she were being mistreated by the infamous DINCOTE officials. So, what good was the calling card? And I couldn't understand how the embassy expected us to hire a Peruvian lawyer without coming to Peru. It dawned on me that I would be faced not only with trying to understand the actions of the Peruvian government, but the U.S. government as well. Later that afternoon, we received a surprise phone call from Lori. She had been taken by the police to her apartment in the San Borja region of Lima. She was brought there to witness the search of her apartment and was allowed to place a thirty-second phone call to us in New York. She sounded frightened and frantic, telling us: "They're accusing me of the most unbelievable things. I am completely innocent of these preposterous charges. I need a lawyer. I need underwear and shoes. Most of all I need a lawyer. Cancel my American Express card immediately, because the military police have taken it and I don't trust them." We called American Express, and sure enough, $440 had been charged on Saturday--while Lori was in prison. Lori also had told us that the police had taken her latest bank statement. This was an account she held jointly with me in New York. Lori was afraid the police would find a way to access the money. Lori never could have guessed that the Peruvians would later claim that this bank statement provided definitive proof that Lori was, of all things, an arms dealer. Although we were told that the Peruvian justice system had many shortcomings, it still seemed crucial that we find the correct lawyer. We knew Lori couldn't possibly be guilty of the charges against her, and we were confident that if she presented her side, countered the supposed evidence, and had her lawyer cross-examine witnesses--in other words, if she had a fair trial--she would be found innocent and released. We were very naive. We did not know then what we know now: Peruvian military tribunals convict whomever they want--and they nearly always convict. Once arrested, there is no way out. The right to a defense is only a pretense, and the role of the lawyer is solely intended to support that pretense. Our telephone networking led us to two terrific resources. One chain of calls led to a journalist, Frank Smythe, who had been held by the Iranian government and was released with the help of former U.S. Attorney General Ramsey Clark. Frank suggested we contact Ramsey at his office in New York City. We met with him that afternoon. Among all the other sudden changes in my life, I could now add that I personally met a former U.S. attorney general. Ramsey did not look very different from his photos in 1967, when President Lyndon B. Johnson appointed him. He was still tall and slim, with brown hair. And with his flannel shirt and soft drawl, he brought a touch of Texas to New York. He listened to our story carefully, responding in his characteristic slow, deliberate, thoughtful way. He advised that either Mark or I go to Peru immediately to select a lawyer. Ramsey offered to go along and help with the selection, but due to a prior commitment he could stay at most three days. He also thought it imperative that we contact members of the U.S. Congress and the U.S. Department of State to urge them to pressure the government of Peru to release Lori. He described another case in which he had helped a young American woman, Jennifer Casolo, who had been arrested in El Salvador and who was released after an outcry from Senator Christopher Dodd of Connecticut. On a separate branch of our newly formed network, we were reminded that one of our neighbors, Thomas Nooter, was active in the local Democratic club and might be able to speak to Congresswoman Carolyn Maloney on our behalf. When we met with Tom he readily agreed to do so, and he also offered his expertise as a criminal lawyer. Tom is fluent in Spanish, having spent his teenage years in Uruguay. He had also worked previously with Ramsey Clark. By Monday night it was decided that Mark, Ramsey, and Tom would leave on Wednesday for Peru. I was to pressure members of Congress for help and continue gathering information about Peruvian lawyers. I had already spoken to my colleagues, who had readily agreed to cover my classes for that week, and longer if necessary. Mark had made similar arrangements. Tuesday was spent making plans for the trip to Peru. By this time, many of our friends and their friends had called their congressional representatives and senators, and they in turn called the State Department. Word had reached the embassy in Peru that there was a lot of concern about Lori. At a press briefing, a State Department spokesman said the United States would stay involved in the case and ensure that Peruvian authorities treat Berenson "according to international standards." So when I called Peru on Tuesday, I noted a new, more helpful attitude. Julie Grant had already visited Lori. She reported that Lori was not being mistreated. She was being held alone in a cell furnished only with a mattress and an overhead light that was controlled from the outside. She had seemed tired but in good humor, and she had expressed concern over interrogators' statements that she would be imprisoned in the notorious Yanamayo Prison in Puno. Julie later spoke with Colonel Juan Gonzales Sandoval, the DINCOTE officer in charge of the case, and was assured that this would not occur. Lori was also most anxious for information about what charges and/ or accusations were being made, since she was being held incommunicado and had not been formally charged. Julie made it clear that the embassy role was to look after her welfare, but not to investigate her case. Lori brightened with the news that Mark was coming. She was anxious to see him and was relieved to know that he was going to hire a lawyer. Julie told us that she asked for clothing, shoes, toiletries, and, if we could find it, an old pair of eyeglasses. The police had taken her glasses and claimed to have lost them. She had disposable contact lenses, but she wasn't allowed to use the necessary disinfectant solution. Consular officials were preparing for the visit from Mark, Ramsey, and Tom. The officials had spoken to Colonel Gonzales and confirmed that they all would be allowed to visit Lori. These officials were also gathering information about Peruvian lawyers, even though, as they indicated in a later report, finding an attorney to represent anyone up on such charges would be very difficult. Although Lori had made front-page news in Peru ever since her arrest, it wasn't until Tuesday that articles appeared in the New York Times and the New York Daily News . The Times article included our home address, making it easy for reporters to call without having to go through all of the Berensons in the phone book. We were barraged with calls and had to install "call-waiting," which we had managed to do without even when there were two teenaged girls at home. It was time for a crash course on the media. We learned very quickly how easily we could be misquoted or quoted out of context, and how aggressive and how insensitive reporters can be. I'll always remember the call from a journalist at People magazine who told me he wasn't planning to write a story immediately, but should Lori be found guilty and given a harsh sentence, he would very much like to write one. I started visualizing vultures hovering over a corpse. Meanwhile, Mark packed his clothes and Lori's, although we could not locate the eyeglasses. Mark had slept very little for days, and I hoped that the long trip to Peru would allow some time for rest. I also hoped, as did Mark, Ramsey, and Tom, that by the time they reached Lima, the Peruvian government would realize that they made a mistake; that the police would realize she was innocent; that the U.S. government would convince the Peruvian government to release Lori; that she'd come home with Mark. (Continues...) Copyright © 2000 Rhoda Berenson. All rights reserved.
