The Nightmare Begins

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 nonteaching 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) that had been involved in a shootout 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 to 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.

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 shootout 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 shootout 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 shootout. 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 naïve. 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 incomunicado 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.

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 teen-age 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.

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.

At 10 a.m. on Wednesday, Tom and Mark left for the airport, where they were joined by Ramsey. We stayed in frequent phone contact over the next several days, starting with a call when the plane from New York City landed in Miami. Ramsey had called his office and was distressed to learn that officials from the State Department had chosen to treat Lori’s case as a consular rather than a political matter. Although Tom and Ramsey tried to explain this in a way that wouldn’t further upset Mark, the decision meant that the U.S. government would try to ensure that Lori was well treated, but they were not working behind the scenes for her immediate release. The odds that she’d come home in a few days had diminished considerably.

Meanwhile in New York the phone rang all day as U.S. and Peruvian reporters wanted Mark’s flight schedule and hotel destination. I didn’t provide information, but I knew they wouldn’t have any difficulty locating him. We now had two phone lines, call-waiting, and access to my neighbor’s fax. A schedule was set up with Kathy, Mark’s brother, Ken, our sister-in-law, Judy, and several neighbors so that there were always at least two people besides me to answer the phones. In addition to calls from the media, there were many from friends, some of whom we hadn’t heard from in years. And more amazing were the messages from total strangers who had read about Lori’s arrest, and wanted to help. I kept hearing "it could have been me" or "it could have been my daughter." We also had a call from Congresswoman Maloney, who said she was staying in close touch with the State Department, had spoken with the embassy in Peru, and would help in any way possible.

The mail brought letters from movie producers, asking for the rights to Lori’s story. I had not yet gotten used to seeing my name in the paper or hearing news reports about Lori on local radio, and certainly the idea of Lori’s Story on a big screen seemed about as bizarre as the thought of Lori in prison. Lori has always been a very private person, and I was sure she wouldn’t want any part of her life acted out for all to see. However, the prospect did provide a source of entertainment as we sat around and chose the actors and actresses we wanted to have play us. Mark’s brother, Ken, always in good physical shape, would have no one but Sylvestor Stallone, and Kathy’s preference was Winona Ryder. I thought Meryl Streep would be fine for me. Jack Lemmon had played Ed Horman, the father of an American who disappeared in Missing, a movie based on a true story that had parallels to ours. So Jack Lemmon would play Mark. This was a fun game, but when I spoke to Mark at 1:30 a.m. from his hotel in Lima, I realized that our lives were indeed becoming less and less those of an ordinary family and more and more like a family in a movie, in fact a movie complete with car chases.

Mark’s flight landed in Lima at 11:30 p.m. The U. S. Embassy had not sent anyone to meet the plane, but the Peruvian press was there in force. As Mark was walking with Tom and Ramsey toward the terminal building, they were surrounded by civilian and military police who helped them clear the last of the customs hurdles and escorted them to taxis directly in front of the airport enclosure.

Instead of the usual crowd of family and friends waiting to welcome the arriving passengers, there were hundreds of journalists and tv crews, all screaming for interviews and photos. In spite of the security escort, they were quickly engulfed by reporters, microphones, and cameras. In the crush, Mark was separated from Tom and Ramsey, and pushed by security into a waiting taxi. There were people all over the taxi, on the roof and on the hood; faces were pressed to the windshield and all of the windows. At one point the door of the taxi opened and camera crews and journalists jumped in, snapping photos and asking questions. One of the cameras smacked against Mark’s forehead, scraping a two-inch line of skin from his scalp. It was an accident, but nobody even bothered to apologize. He was angry and exhausted, but tried to be polite. He kept repeating, in English, " I just want a chance to see my daughter. This is a nightmare. Please, let me see my daughter. I know she is innocent." Police finally pulled everybody out of and off the vehicle, literally kicking them out of the way, and the taxi, with a security officer seated alongside the driver, pulled away from the crowds.

As the taxi left the airport, Mark turned around to look for the taxi with Tom and Ramsey, but what he saw following him was a caravan of cars, vans, and camera trucks with bright lights. The taxi was going more than sixty miles an hour when a press vehicle caught up and cut it off. The taxi was forced to stop, brakes screeching, while reporters yelled out questions and tried to take more pictures. The driver spun around and took a small, dark side street. Mark said he thought his life might be about to end, but he was too numb to worry about it.

Finally, the taxi arrived at the Sheraton Hotel, in downtown Lima. The press caravan was still in hot pursuit, and there were another fifty or so journalists and cameramen waiting at the hotel entrance. Ramsey and Tom, each in separate taxis, arrived about ten minutes later. Mark said it was after 1 a.m. when, exhausted and sweating, he went to his room. He tried to make this sound like an adventure, but his voice told me it was an extremely harrowing experience. He promised to phone again after he saw Lori.

On Thursday, the home campaign continued while I anxiously awaited Mark’s call. In the afternoon a tv crew from Peru’s Channel 5 rang my intercom wanting to interview me. Even though I had spent the morning in interviews with local newspapers, this was different, and I decided against it. I had not yet done a tv interview, and the Peruvian crew only spoke Spanish, a language I barely understood. I recalled Mark’s experience of the previous night, and so I wasn’t surprised that this crew would not take no for an answer. They stopped ringing the intercom only after a neighbor confronted them and threatened to call the police.

Meanwhile, the wire service Agence France-Presse had reported that the Peruvian police claimed that Lori had been posing as a journalist, using false press credentials to gain intelligence for a planned attack on the Peruvian congress.

First of all, I knew that Lori could never be involved in "a planned attack on the Peruvian congress." And also I knew that Lori had legitimate press credentials for two magazines. I immediately called Modern Times and Third World Viewpoint. The editors of both publications sent letters verifying that Lori was writing articles for them, and I faxed these to Mark.

Mark finally called in midafternoon. He had seen Lori and she was okay. The visit was in the dincote office of the secretary to Colonel Juan Gonzales Sandoval. Sandoval, nicknamed "The Jackal," was the police officer in charge of the investigation. Lori, escorted by guards, entered smiling, looking paler and thinner since her visit to New York in September. She did not look abused. They sat side by side on a sofa, while two guards sat across the room. They talked in syllables and whispers, knowing that the room was most assuredly bugged, for about forty-five minutes, during which time Lori tried to convince Mark not to worry, and Mark tried to convince Lori not to worry. Lori asked about Kathy and me and how we were dealing with all this, and also expressed concern that Mark looked so tired. She said she was being interrogated day and night and had been accused of "everything under the sun." She kept repeating that she was innocent, that she could never be involved with terrorism. But Lori was more knowledgeable than we about Peruvian justice and knew that although she was innocent and the charges against her were preposterous, she might very well be convicted of something. There were hundreds of innocent people in Peruvian prisons. The conversation was interspersed with hugs, but whenever tears welled up, Lori reminded him that they should not cry. The guards would see that as a weakness, and interrogators could use any weakness to force a false confession. Mark told her he would be going to the embassy to meet various lawyers. He assured her he would hire the best one he could find.

Mark, Ramsey, and Tom had met that morning at the U.S. Embassy with Jim Mack, who was in charge while the ambassador, Alvin Adams, was out of the country. Mack had bad news. Ramsey’s request to meet with President Fujimori had been denied. He said President Fujimori was a very strong-willed, difficult man and the U.S. has very little influence with him, which was hard to believe given the amount of financial aid Peru received from the U.S. He added that, unfortunately, Lori’s arrest came at a time when Peru was angry at the United States over the impending sale of some military jets to Ecuador. Mack believed there was no chance that Lori would be simply expelled from Peru, the solution that Mark, Ramsey, and Tom had been looking for.

Mark called again that night to tell me about his afternoon and evening, which he spent with Ramsey and Tom interviewing lawyers at the embassy. Mark couldn’t remember all of those interviewed, but a few of them stood out, and he described them to me.

Ronald Gamarra of the Peruvian Legal Defense Institute had written a leading text on terrorism-related cases in Peru. Tom Holladay translated as Gamarra eagerly provided information about the legal process. He was later joined by an energetic and enthusiastic colleague, Ernesto de la Jara. They both seemed interested in the case, but would not commit themselves to taking it. Neither had ever represented a foreigner accused of terrorism, a situation that seemed to Ramsey and Tom to present special issues. And they had seemed concerned for their own security, particularly if they took the case of a foreigner.

Several of the lawyers who came were elderly former congressmen from opposition parties who were eager to represent Lori but had no experience in criminal law or terrorism cases. Ramsey and Tom thought their lack of appropriate experience and their affiliation with political parties that opposed President Fujimori made them poor choices.

Vivid in Mark’s mind was Jose Ugas, who spoke excellent English, was very articulate, and very confident. Ugas had been successful earlier that year in securing the release of an Italian woman who had been sentenced in Peru for terrorism. Ramsey and Tom explained that Lori needed a lawyer in order to make her official statement. She had been interrogated now for a whole week. The twenty or so codefendants had already made their official statements. Ugas replied that he would be out of the country and would not be able to see Lori for a few weeks. But he insisted his absence wouldn’t matter because regardless of who was her lawyer, regardless of whether she was innocent or guilty, she would be convicted. He suggested the best approach was to have her convicted as quickly as possible, without putting up a fight. Then in the appeals process he could turn things around. He described how on appeal the Italian woman pled guilty and was expelled from Peru. This made no sense to Mark, Ramsey, or Tom. Ugas seemed to be an insider, a negotiator, and not a real counsel. Lori was innocent, and they were looking for a lawyer who would argue she was innocent and fight for her acquittal.

One of the lawyers we tried to contact before Mark left the United States was a man named Aramburu, who had been instrumental in helping an American photojournalist arrested in Peru years before. Mr. Aramburu had called the U.S. Embassy and recommended the services of Grimaldo Achahui Loaiza, who came for an interview late in the day. He was an experienced criminal lawyer from Cuzco, now living in Lima. He was an Incan descendent and had the courage to take on difficult cases, and had already defended a Chilean citizen accused of terrorism. He was totally familiar with dincote, their officers, and the situation, and had dealt before with Colonel Gonzales whom he described as a "very hard man." He knew some of the other lawyers involved in the defense of Lori’s codefendants and had learned what the case was about from them. Based on what he heard, read, and read between the lines, Mr. Achahui believed Lori was innocent and wanted to defend her. All were impressed and, as Mark pointed out to me, Mr. Achahui was also the only lawyer interviewed that day who actually wanted to defend Lori. So Ramsey and Tom recommended that Mark see Lori the next day and give her a choice: Grimaldo Achahui or the team of Gamarra and de la Jara. Although this team had not yet agreed to represent her, Ramsey and Tom thought they could be convinced to take the case after they met Lori and confirmed her innocence for themselves.

Before Mark said goodnight, he told me about his ride from the embassy to the hotel at about midnight. He was in the embassy van, and whenever it stopped at red lights, beggars would come alongside, hands outstretched. Some were old or lame, and some were very young children, children who should have been tucked in bed, children who had no future. At one busy intersection, a child in rags, perhaps six or seven years old, carrying an infant on her back, came up to the van, begging for money. Mark said he looked at her and at the baby, thought of Lori, and understood why she was in Peru. How could anyone see these sad faces with their big brown pleading eyes and not want to decry the system that keeps them hungry?

On Friday evening at 6 p.m., Kathy and I were eating dinner—the homemade lentil soup that my neighbor had just delivered. It was hard to imagine that this evening marked only one week since I first heard the news of Lori’s arrest. In one week my whole world had turned upside down. During this week I hadn’t once thought about classroom lectures or grading papers. Instead of researching physical properties of crystalline materials, I was researching the Peruvian justice system, or, as I saw it, the Peruvian system of injustice. Instead of learning dance technique, I was learning how to speak in sound bites. I had just finished my first tv interview, with NY1, a local news cable station. Kathy watched the filming of the interview and said I was fine, but I had been so nervous that immediately afterward, sitting and eating my soup, I had no recollection of what they asked or how I had answered.

Mark called and told me he was allowed another visit with Lori, a shorter one this time. He had described the lawyer interviews to Lori, and she decided that Mark should hire Grimaldo Achahui. Later in the day, Mr. Achahui tried to see Lori at dincote, but was refused permission. Lori’s formal deposition was scheduled for 9 a.m. Saturday, and he could meet with her then, but not before.

Mark sounded so very tired. He admitted to me that he’d had a lot of trouble sleeping, and that he had nightmares whenever he started to doze. Mark had reached the point where he wasn’t sure he could think clearly. But he thought Saturday would be a really important day. After one week, Lori had still not been formally accused of anything. Mark thought that once Lori gave her deposition, the police would release her.

He wanted me to spend Saturday watching the news on tv, particularly the Spanish-language stations in case there was an announcement about Lori. He also suggested I invite Kathy and Judy and Ken to spend Saturday with me so I wouldn’t be alone.

I had no doubt about Lori’s innocence. I was telling everyone we were hoping the case wouldn’t even go to trial, but everything I had heard the past week indicated otherwise. I was also troubled that Mr. Achahui had not been permitted to meet with Lori. Every day things seemed to get worse, and my utterances of hope were belied by the knots in my stomach. On the other hand, Mark, perhaps because his extreme fatigue compromised his judgment, really believed that there was a good chance she would be released and come home with him. But no one else did.

I turned on NY1. I had been told the story would be repeated every hour all night. But Michael Jackson, who was performing in New York, fainted while on stage, and his story replaced mine. My television debut was postponed.

Kathy, Ken, and Judy came to keep me company. We watched tv and waited. And waited. We were expecting something to happen, but we were not sure what. We couldn’t do anything but stare at the tv, wait for a news report, and hope that Mark would call. The day progressed very slowly until Mark finally called at 11 p.m. His day was also one of waiting, in dincote headquarters, with Ramsey and Tom. Lori’s interrogation started at 10:40 a.m. and, except for a short lunch break, it continued uninterrupted until past 7 p.m. Mr. Achahui had a chance to explain the process during the lunch break, and Tom and Ramsey translated for Mark. Mark said that all he could remember was that although Mr. Achahui was introduced to Lori and was allowed to sit in the interrogation room, he was not permitted to speak with her.

At 7 p.m. Mr. Achahui returned to say the interrogation was over for the day. Lori had done a good job answering. But Mr. Achahui thought that some answers could be made clearer, and Colonel Gonzales agreed that this could be done on Sunday morning. Next, the statement, page by page, had to be typed, reviewed, signed or retyped and then signed. This process lasted another three and a half hours. At about 10:30 p.m., Lori’s statement was signed and sealed, and it was agreed that the clarifications would be made at 9 a.m. on Sunday. After a whole day of extremely tense waiting, Ramsey, Tom, and Mark were exhausted. Mr. Achahui and Colonel Gonzales were also exhibiting signs of fatigue. But as they were ready to leave, Lori came out of the interrogation room, and despite the grueling day, she smiled, waved, and seemed very confident.

We all jumped up when the phone finally rang. Mark apologized for keeping us waiting all day for an event that never happened. There was no public phone in dincote, and he hadn’t wanted to leave for fear of missing something. He promised to call again early the next day.

I knew what the day had been like for me, in my own home, amid close family, sitting and waiting for news, maybe news that Lori would be released. But I couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for Mark, sitting all day in dincote headquarters, just down the hall from Lori but unable to be with her or even know what was happening to her, much less help. Fortunately, he had the company of Ramsey, Tom, and Tom Holladay. The day was now over, but we really didn’t know much more about Lori’s fate than when it started. And I couldn’t imagine what the day was like for Lori, facing The Jackal and his questions for nine hours, learning that the lawyer she had begged for when she called us five days earlier was not permitted to speak with her or give her advice until all formal proceedings were completed.

Mark called around noon on Sunday to say that Colonel Gonzales had changed his mind, and that Lori would not be allowed to clarify her statement. Lori was still not charged. Mr. Achahui explained that according to Peruvian law, the police could take up to fifteen days before charging a suspect in treason/terrorism cases. Mark suggested that I come to Peru so I could see Lori before those fifteen days were up, since it was unclear if we’d be allowed to visit Lori once she was formally charged.

We agreed that I would leave for Peru Monday morning, and then Mark would return to New York on Tuesday morning. This would allow time for him to fill me in on details Monday night and would get him to New York for his Tuesday night class. He had already missed a whole week of classes, and final exams were approaching. In spite of his exhaustion and his preoccupation with Lori, he still had obligations to his students. Ramsey had left Peru that morning, but Tom would be able to stay with me until December 15—the fifteenth day.

I was anxious to get to Peru. I needed to see Lori, and I wanted to know what was happening firsthand. I was glad Mark was coming home. He needed to rest. It was unfortunate that Ramsey had to leave—his political insights were invaluable—but I was very relieved to know that Tom would be there to help with legal questions and with Spanish.

I purchased airline tickets, called a colleague to arrange for further class coverage, asked Kathy to stay in the apartment while both Mark and I were away, and packed for the trip to Peru.

I left for Peru on Monday morning. I was scheduled to change planes in Miami and arrive in Lima at around 11 p.m. As luck would have it, my flight from New York to Miami was cancelled at the last minute, and although I caught the next possible flight, it did not reach Miami in time for my connection to Peru. Instead I spent five hours in the Miami airport waiting for the midnight flight. I called Mark and arranged to meet him the next morning at the Lima airport, where we could spend an hour together before he boarded his flight home.

I spent the entire day waiting in airports. I stared much of the time at the airport tv screens, thinking there might be news about Lori. I considered buying a mystery or adventure novel, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate. For the past ten days I had been too busy to think beyond what I was doing at the moment. But there I was, finally alone with my thoughts; no phones were ringing, there were no faxes to send, and there was no one with me to joke about movie offers. My stomach was churning and my head was throbbing. It was at the airport that I started imagining the worst, that I would finally get to see Lori and she would be ill, or injured, or distraught, or that I would travel all the way to Peru and not be allowed to see her at all.

I have been to Peru many times since this first trip, and each time I have had the same fears, the same knotted stomach, and the same throbbing head, from the moment I leave for the airport until I actually see Lori.

The only reading material I had brought was a report by Human Rights Watch: Americas entitled "Peru, The Two Faces of Justice". Bob Schwartz, a colleague of Ramsey Clark, had given it to me. He was concerned that Mark and I, in spite of all we may have heard, still had an unrealistic view of Peruvian justice. He told me that this report would be upsetting but that I had to read it. While I waited in Miami, I followed his advice.

Bob was right. The report certainly didn’t alleviate my anxiety about Lori’s immediate safety, and it added to the more deep-seated fear for Lori’s future. It was filled with accounts of secret trials, disappearances, long sentences, and torture. It had statistics and descriptions of legal issues and a discussion of the "repentance law," which allowed arrepentidos, those who repent, to receive reduced or suspended sentences for themselves or their relatives if they would implicate others. Hundreds, if not thousands, of innocent people were in prison because someone pointed a finger, often at someone they didn’t even know.

The most heart-rending parts were the accounts of selected cases. The one that remains in my mind is that of a mentally retarded woman who worked as a live-in maid. She did not know, nor could she comprehend, that she was employed by a high-ranking member of the Shining Path, a Peruvian guerrilla group. She was arrested along with her employer. She pleaded that she knew nothing about the Shining Path, and her employer testified that she was hired specifically because she was mentally retarded and would not understand anything about his activities. Nevertheless, she was sentenced to life in prison as a Shining Path leader. The report pointed out that she remains in prison, although prison guards have confirmed she is clearly mentally retarded.

When I finished reading, I found that my fear was now mixed with tremendous anger. I was angry that such a system existed and that, as far as I knew, aside from human rights activists, few Americans were even aware of it. Before reading the report I had some general idea that Peruvian justice left much to be desired, but I had no idea of the extent of the injustice or the cruelty. Reading the report made me want to scream.

The plane landed in Lima at about 5:30 a.m. and I met Mark in the airport coffee shop. I have never seen him look so exhausted or so distraught. To add to his misery, he had the flu. We spoke of his final visit with Lori on Monday, which would be his last one for a while. They had both tried to be cheerful for each other. They joked and talked and hugged. I could see the tears well up in his eyes as he told me how he traced the features of her face with his index finger—her forehead, eyebrows, nose, mouth, and chin—so he could remember her more precisely. As I hugged Mark and said good-bye, I promised I’d call at every opportunity. He said he would meet me at the airport when I came home, and was hoping that Lori would be with me.

Tom Nooter had accompanied Mark to the airport, and he went back with me to the Sheraton. Although there had been no journalists at the airport, they were already congregating outside the hotel when we arrived at about eight. They were also in front of the embassy when I went to meet Julie Grant and Tom Holladay, and they positively swarmed around Julie, Tom, and me when we arrived at dincote for an afternoon visit with Lori.

I was so anxious to see Lori and so enormously relieved when I finally saw her. She greeted me with a big smile, a big hug and a big "hi, Mom!" She was wearing black slacks, a white shirt, and a maroon cotton blazer, the same clothes she wore in the newspaper photos. Her brown hair fell with a slight wave below her shoulders, almost to the middle of her back. We were sitting in someone’s office, and police were coming and going in the room, but Lori and I tried to ignore them. We sat close together and talked in a whisper. Lori knew that her conversations with her lawyer had been monitored, and we were always concerned that someone was listening to us also—not just that day but on subsequent days in dincote, and later years at prison visits. We had nothing criminal to hide, but it was so difficult to speak as mother and daughter with strangers listening in.

Lori wanted to know about everyone at home—Kathy, my father, Judy, and Ken and her cousins Jon and Matt. She asked about my cats, Muffin and Bon Bon. Lori referred to them as her little sisters, and wanted to hear about their latest adventures. We talked about all the people that were calling from across the country.

She discussed the prison. The food was not terrible. It was in fact the same as the food served in the dincote cafeteria. Mr. Achahui had brought her fresh fruit. She joked that he was skilled at choosing fruit, but that she’d feel more confident in his skills as a lawyer if she knew he had at least once won a case. Mr. Achahui had told Mark he previously had defended those accused of terrorism. But he hadn’t said, and embassy officials didn’t tell us, that he had defended Victor Polay, founder and leader of the mrta. After a spectacle of an arrest and a secret military tribunal, Mr. Polay had been sentenced to life in prison. Mr. Achahui was similarly unsuccessful with others accused of treason. But Lori knew—and I was learning—that there was not much a lawyer could do to affect the decision in these cases. At any rate, I was glad to see that Lori could still joke about her situation. It probably sounds strange to joke about such a serious matter, but Lori and I tended to do that, in conversations and letters, to try to find humor even in the serious, and especially in the bizarre.

I, in turn, joked that I had warned her that anthropology is a dangerous field of study. She should have stuck with mathematics. She replied that it wasn’t anthropology that got her into this mess, it was music. Then she became more serious and said she had been thinking about her life and what had drawn her to Latin America and finally Peru. Her life’s goals had changed when she was fourteen years old and a member of the junior high school chorus. The group had made a radio/tv commercial for the organization care. While the rest of the chorus sang, Lori did the voiceover about starving children throughout the world. Now, twelve years later she told me that thoughts of starving children still haunted her.

I told Lori about the movie offers, and we entertained ourselves by deciding who should play whom. She said she had heard that the Peruvian newspapers were filled with stories of her supposed love affairs, and that if a movie were made, she’d insist that at least one of her lovers be played by Antonio Banderes. She promised to cast the other lovers by my visit the next day. Of course, this was all in fun, since we assumed no movie would actually be made. The last thing Lori would want was a movie made about her.

That evening Tom and I walked around downtown Lima while he filled me in on what he had learned during the week. I asked if he had spoken to Lori, and he said that although he and Ramsey were told by embassy officials that they had permission to see Lori, Colonel Gonzales refused to allow them to do so because they were not accredited as lawyers in Peru. However, he had spoken several times with Mr. Achahui and was starting to understand some of the Peruvian procedures. An important issue was still whether Lori was to be charged with terrorism, which would mean a civilian trial, or treason, which would mean a military tribunal. Colonel Gonzales had originally told embassy officials that a civilian trial was likely. However, in recent days, he indicated that he expected that Lori, and those arrested following the La Molina shootout, would be brought before a military tribunal. If that were the case, there wouldn’t be a trial. A military judge, who didn’t even have to be a lawyer, would look at the statements made by Lori and all the others, along with any evidence provided by the police, and make a decision of guilt or innocence. If guilty, he would impose a sentence. Lori still had not officially been charged with anything. But Peruvian law said police had fifteen days from arrest to do so, and in cases of treason that could be extended to thirty days. I asked Tom how Lori, a U.S. citizen, could be charged with treason in Peru. I was under the impression that you could only be treasonous against your own country. Tom said that Peru had its own definition of treason. Anyone accused of taking up arms against Peru or anyone considered a leader of what Peru deemed to be a terrorist group was charged with treason. Peru had already used this definition to convict several foreigners, but as yet no United States citizens, of treason. This was still perplexing to me. No one had said anything about Lori "taking up arms," and no one could possibly believe she was a leader of a terrorist group.

As we walked, we passed many newspaper kiosks, each surrounded by people reading the front pages hanging on the walls. Lori’s photo was everywhere. Tom said it had been like that since he arrived. Although the raid in La Molina had resulted in the capture of some important members of the mrta, it was Lori who made the headlines. The newspapers and tv reports were filled with all sorts of accusations: She rented the La Molina safe house where the shootout took place; she had false press credentials in order to enter the Peruvian Congress; she was a terrorist sympathizer; even that she was an international arms dealer. Every day presented a new sensational version of Lori’s alleged activities. As each fantastic report faded, another, even more outrageous, would appear. All of these activities were said to have aided the mrta in a future plan to kidnap members of the Peruvian Congress. It was all insane. Lori may have sympathized with the plight of the poor, she may have been critical of the Peruvian government—but arms dealer? Kidnap members of Congress?

Colonel Gonzales had told Tom and Ramsey about the rental of the La Molina house, but when asked if they could see the lease, the Colonel demurred. Lori did not sign the lease. She did not rent the house after all. Lori lived in an apartment in San Borja, nowhere near La Molina. Tom said he saw Lori’s doorman on tv, telling reporters that Lori was a model tenant, saying that he witnessed the police search of her apartment and they hadn’t found arms, attack plans, subversive literature, or pamphlets—just clothes and books.

We already knew that Lori’s press credentials were authentic and had been issued by the appropriate Peruvian agencies, and didn’t understand why the police insisted on saying they were false. And as for the accusation of arms dealer, this seemed to be based on the fact that Lori knew Pacífico Castrellón, a Panamanian citizen who also had been arrested on November 30 and accused of transporting weapons to Peru for the mrta. Castrellón was seen on Peruvian tv literally on his knees, begging forgiveness and pleading for mercy. Castrellón "repented" and pointed to Lori, saying she was an international organizer. I suggested to Tom that in court it would be Lori’s word against his, and I was sure that Lori’s word would prevail. But Tom reminded me that if the case was to be heard by a military tribunal, there would be no courtroom and no opportunity for Lori or Mr. Achahui to cross-examine Castrellón, or for Lori to explain anything at all. That’s why we had to hope for a civilian trial, where evidence would be subject to inspection, witnesses would be subject to cross-examination, and Lori would be able to testify. But again, I was painfully aware of how many cases there were of innocent people who had been wrongly convicted of terrorism by civilian courts that also had hooded, unidentifiable judges.

The next three days were a round of trips to and from the embassy, to and from dincote, to and from Mr. Achahui’s office. There was little time to rest or eat. Sometimes meals were limited to the m&m peanuts in the hotel room mini-fridge. We spent a lot of time sitting in traffic and waiting at dincote. In the evenings, Tom and I were interviewed by Peruvian press and tv journalists.

All of my visits with Lori took place on the thirteenth floor of dincote, sometimes in an office, sometimes in the hallway. It was not usual for so many detainees to be held at this facility, or for them to have visitors, and unlike most prisons there was no special room to accommodate visits. Sometimes some of Lori’s codefendants were also on the thirteenth floor visiting with their family members or meeting their lawyers. There were always police coming and going, typing, filing, talking, listening, and sewing. The official statements of all twenty-one detainees and all records of evidence were actually hand-sewn into one very thick volume.

At one visit Lori introduced me to Nancy Gilvonio. I had read about Nancy in the early press reports, where she was identified as a Bolivian named Rosa. She was working as a photojournalist, and Lori knew her by her Bolivian identity. She did not know that Nancy was married to Nestor Cerpa, a leader of the mrta. Rosa (Nancy) was also in the Congress on November 30, and she too was arrested and taken off the bus in downtown Lima early that evening.

As Lori and I sat huddled, whispering, she described her arrest and its aftermath.

She had gone to the Congress on November 30, as she had several other times, to gather material for the articles she was writing—to observe the debates and to see how individuals voted and argued. But on that day the discussion centered on a recently exposed scandal involving the appropriation of the homes of arrested drug traffickers by high-level officials in the Peruvian National Police, and after a while, Lori decided that the debate was not of interest for what she was writing. She preferred to go home and listen to the outcome on the tv news. Nancy also decided to leave, and at about 7 p.m. they boarded a bus for their respective trips home.

After a few blocks, several men got onto the bus and dragged Lori and Nancy out, separately, to waiting cars. Lori thought she was being kidnapped, kidnapping being common in Lima. She yelled and tried to get away but could not. She was driven to dincote headquarters, where she was asked her address, occupation, etc., and her personal possessions, including her money, credit card, and watch, were taken.

I had already pieced together that information from newspaper and embassy reports. But I had assumed that Lori spent that night, like all succeeding nights, in dincote. I had no idea that she was driven to the house in La Molina at about 8 p.m., and was held there in the car until well after daylight the next morning—hours during which all hell seemed to break out around her.

When she first arrived all was quiet, but she could see what appeared to be police in civilian clothing holding weapons while sitting in unmarked cars. And then the shooting started. Lori was thrown face down on the floor of the car, and when a grenade landed very close by, the car was driven down the street. Later, after gunfire broke out right behind her and the police threw themselves to the ground or behind trees and cars, Lori was moved two blocks further away. But she still could hear the shooting. At times she was permitted to sit; other times she was pushed again to the floor. It was absolutely harrowing. For hours she listened to the intensified gun battles, not knowing what was happening at the house or its surroundings, and not knowing what would happen to her. She was frightened for herself, for those in the targeted house, and for the families in nearby homes. In the morning, the shooting had ended, and before she was returned to dincote, Lori was moved closer to the scene of the fighting. She saw a multitude of military vehicles. The fronts of all the houses in the area were riddled with bullet holes. It wasn’t until much later, in dincote, that she learned what went on that night.

As I listened to Lori’s account of that evening, I became more and more horrified. But we were sitting in dincote trying not to show any emotions, not wanting to let the police know how we felt. I was just so, so thankful that Lori wasn’t harmed. I wondered why she, but not Nancy, was taken to La Molina. Maybe the police thought that such a harrowing experience would convince Lori to "repent."

During another visit Lori pointed out Pacífico Castrellón. Lori told me that she had been introduced to Castrellón through a mutual friend and had met him in Panama on her way to Peru in November 1994, had remained friendly with him, had met his friends, and often borrowed his van when she needed a car. Despite reports in the Peruvian press, he and Lori were not romantically involved, although Lori hinted that fifty-two-year-old, married Castrellón, might have liked that. Unfortunately, the last time she borrowed the van she found two uniforms in it, and she had brought them up to her apartment for safe keeping. She had explained this to the police when they searched her apartment.

Castrellón was an architect, and it was he who rented the house in La Molina. He told Lori that the house would be used to teach youngsters from the countryside how to organize grassroots campaigns to improve social and economic conditions. It would also be a meeting place where people could exchange ideas about a whole range of issues. Lori told me, as she had told Mark and as she had told Colonel Gonzales on many occasions, she knew absolutely nothing about weapons hidden in false ceilings in the house or any plans to kidnap members of the Peruvian Congress. She had met with many people while in Peru. If some were members of the mrta, they would not have identified themselves as such or revealed their real names or their positions in the organization. And speaking with them did not make her a member of the group. She told the police repeatedly that she was not a member of the mrta.

I told Lori that Castrellón had "repented" and made accusations against her. As it turned out, the police had already told her that he had accused her of all sorts of crazy things. Lori said that some of the women detainees had been threatened with torture, and it was possible that Castrellón was threatened also. Dincote has a long history of torturing detainees, even those who have absolutely no useful information. She added that Castrellón had a family in Panama, and he probably would have said anything to minimize his sentence. Maybe he was even hoping his testimony would lead to his release.

Lori had been asked if she wanted to repent. Of course she could not predict what she might or might not agree to do if she were subjected to torture. But otherwise, she would never apologize for something she had never done, would never say she was guilty when she was innocent, and would never, ever look for favors by pointing a finger at someone else. And I certainly would not ask her to do so.

Before I left for Peru, friends in the States suggested that I should be pragmatic, encourage Lori to "cooperate," convince the authorities she was psychologically unstable, or do whatever it takes to get her home. I was aware that while some people naturally "connected" to Lori, others just did not understand her. A brief biography—dates, places, hobbies, people she knew—didn’t help explain her. Yes, she likes music and movies and has favorite movie stars. She succeeded academically, can solve mathematical equations, and plays the guitar. But none of that explains why she was in Peru, or why she wouldn’t cry, confess, or repent.

Lori has written, "I have done most everything I’ve done, and certainly all important things I’ve done, because it was my moral obligation to do so." And as I sat with her in dincote, she reminded me once again that it was her moral obligation not to be silent, that to be silent in the face of social injustice and abuse is to be an accomplice to evil. She was not a saint and did not wish to be a martyr. She simply strongly held to her principles. She certainly was different from the members of her generation who focused solely on the comfort of themselves and their families and friends. And she also differed from people like myself who were deeply angered by injustice but made little effort to effect change. As I listened to Lori, as much as I wanted her to come home, I could not ask her to forget her sense of moral obligation and be pragmatic. Relinquishing her principles would have meant total defeat. I also sensed that I would no longer be a silent accomplice.

On my visits to dincote I had several opportunities to meet with Colonel Gonzales. He was always extremely polite. Our conversations were always with an interpreter, but he was soft-spoken with a kind smile, even when he told me it was too bad that my daughter was a terrorist who would spend a long time in prison. At one visit I asked if he could return the books taken from Lori’s apartment, textbooks on women’s rights and feminist issues, and the tape of Lori singing Afro-Peruvian music that she had made for Mark’s birthday. I pointed out that none of these personal items were relevant to the case. But, smiling once again, he said they were now and would remain police property. I asked him if Lori’s eyeglasses and her money, which still had not been returned to her, were also to remain police property. He didn’t respond.

Colonel Gonzales always made a point of reminding me that he was not pleased with our choice of lawyer. He claimed that Mr. Achahui was a member of the mrta. After all, why else would he have defended so many of them! I knew that when Ramsey and Tom learned that Mr. Achahui had defended Victor Polay, they had agonized over whether or not to change attorneys. But the fact remained that he was still the only attorney with the appropriate experience who was also committed to helping Lori. I recalled that Mr. Achahui had told us he no longer owned a car because he was afraid it would be bombed, and that he—like others who defended those accused of terrorism—risked being accused and convicted himself. So, although the Colonel was trying to convince me to change lawyers, his accusations only succeeded in explaining why there were so few lawyers willing to defend those accused of terrorism. It was easy to understand why most Peruvians accused of terrorism were defended by "faceless" dincote-assigned public defense attorneys, lawyers who, like the judge and prosecutors, wore hoods when they met with their clients so nobody would know their identity.

On Wednesday morning Tom and I were contacted by a man who said he had "connections," and could arrange for Lori’s release. Although he wasn’t specific, the general idea was that his connections and $300,000 put into the right pockets would do the job. On one hand, several people had suggested that there should be a way to buy Lori’s freedom. On the other hand, we had been warned to beware of seemingly sincere people who would take our money and run. Tom decided to test the usefulness of this particular gentleman’s connections. Tom explained that he had not been permitted to meet with Lori, and proposed that this gentleman demonstrate his abilities by arranging for him to consult with her. The gentleman said it was as good as done. When we arrived at dincote that afternoon, it would be arranged. It sounded good, but it never came to pass. The embassy made inquiries and discovered that a lawyer mentioned by this gentlemen did indeed have a reputation for being able to "buy people out" of prison. But, apparently, Lori’s was not a case that could be bought off. It was President Fujimori who, for whatever reasons, held up Lori’s passport on television claiming she was a terrorist, and he was watching procedures very carefully.

On Friday morning, December 15, we went to dincote to see Lori. This was the fifteenth day, the day when Lori and the others were to be charged. Although there was still some hope that the foreigners, Lori and Castrellón, would not be accused of treason and would be given civilian trials, Colonel Gonzales had said that this was unlikely. He then told all the families that we could return again that night at 6 p.m. for a final visit.

Tom and I were leaving that night for New York, but fortunately our flight wasn’t until midnight. We checked out of the hotel, went to the embassy to say good-bye to Tom Holladay, and then to Mr. Achahui’s office to say good-bye there. At 6 p.m., I went with Tom and Julie Grant to see Lori one last time. The thirteenth floor was crowded with visitors waiting to see detainees. The police were racing around with papers, and the atmosphere was chaotic. After a few minutes Colonel Gonzales appeared and announced that plans had changed, that all the detainees would be held for another fifteen days at dincote before they would be formally charged. The prosecutor and police needed more time for their investigations. I recalled that Peruvian law allowed the investigation to extend to thirty days in cases of treason. The good news was that I could continue seeing Lori. The bad news was that they chose to treat this as a treason case and it would be heard by a military tribunal. And military tribunals almost always convicted.

Tom had to return to obligations in New York. But I couldn’t leave Peru knowing I would be forfeiting chances to see Lori. I checked back into the Sheraton and called Mark to update him. Kathy was with him at the time. She wanted to join me. She wanted to see Lori. We arranged for her to arrive Monday morning.

Saturday and Sunday were very quiet. I went to see Lori both days, but the visits were very brief, about ten minutes, because dincote was short-staffed on the weekends. I finally got some rest and was able to focus on writing a final exam for my physics class. The exam was scheduled for Tuesday, and I once again imposed upon my colleagues to administer it. But it was my responsibility to write the exam, grade it, and assign final grades. So on Sunday I handwrote the exam, and on Monday faxed it to Nassau Community College. That part of my life seemed so far away. I was reminded that there was a time, not so long ago, when I encountered problems that had logical answers. I missed the logic. I missed being in the classroom. I wanted my old life back.

Kathy’s arrival provided a big boost to Lori’s spirits, and mine too. Although invariably conversation during our visits with Lori turned to details of her case, most of the time we reminisced, joked, and just talked about whatever came to mind. Kathy had brought along photos of her cats. Cats are always a big source of entertainment in our family. We discussed movies we had seen recently and books we were reading. Kathy talked about her research for her thesis and how she was progressing on the furnishing of her new apartment. Lori had been at the apartment in September when the first new item of furniture, a sofa, had arrived, and Kathy brought her up to date on her later acquisitions. Each day, back in the hotel, Kathy and I planned what we would do the next day to keep things cheerful. We also visited the supermarket and bought some of Lori’s favorite foods and toiletries. Dincote encouraged visitors to bring food to supplement what they provided, and things like soap, toothpaste, and toothbrushes that they didn’t supply at all.

We visited for an hour or so each day, and we knew that was the only break Lori had from her prison cell, not counting her nightly interrogations by Colonel Gonzales. It seemed that every night, at about 2 or 3 a.m. Lori was awakened and brought to Gonzales’ office. One night there was a gun on his desk, and he asked Lori to pick it up. She, of course, refused. Another night he showed her a 1991 magazine photo of a female mrta soldier holding a rifle. Gonzales said that he thought it was Lori. Lori told us that aside from the woman having long dark hair, the photo looked nothing like her, and besides, Gonzales knew she was nowhere near Peru in 1991. Nevertheless, the photo appeared the next day in the Peruvian papers.

The dincote police gave whatever information they wanted to the Peruvian press who then printed it as "the truth." In fact, although the three of us talked in whispers with occasional outbursts of laughter, the newspapers reported "sources" detailing violent arguments as Lori’s mother and sister screamed at her to confess. After all, if the police, through the media, could convince the Peruvian public that "even her family knows she’s guilty," certainly no one would clamor that she needed a trial.

Like the previous week, our visits were sometimes in an office and sometimes in the hallway. Kathy and I often waited for Lori in a large corner room with wraparound picture windows looking out over downtown Lima. The remaining walls were filled with bookcases, one of which held a set of books edited by Lenin. I assume they were confiscated from previously arrested "leftists." It was amusing to imagine Colonel Gonzales reading books by Lenin, a thought that was complemented by the tv report that the Marxist members of the mrta were playing Monopoly when the shootout started at the La Molina house.

On Wednesday, the newspapers highlighted the "press presentation" of Miguel Rincon and Jaime Ramirez, two of the men arrested at the La Molina house. Rincon was alleged to be the second in command of the mrta, and Ramirez was said to be a highranking leader of the group. The two men were paraded before journalists in striped prison garb and allowed to say a few words. This practice dated back to 1992, when the police started parading nearly everyone detained on terrorism charges in these striped "jailbird" suits. The rules were changed around 1994, so that now police could present a detainee to the press only if there were evidence that he or she was a terrorist leader. Mr. Achahui, the press, and embassy officials speculated that police did not think Lori was a terrorist leader because she was not presented. I asked Lori about this. She said that Colonel Gonzales told her several times that she wouldn’t be presented, but he did not say why.

Meanwhile, we were learning more about military tribunals. Embassy officials had asked for permission to attend Lori’s trial, only to learn there would be no trial to attend. There was only the case file, the hand-stitched compilation that would include information about Lori and the other defendants. It would contain the defendants’ statements, a review of the evidence presented by the police, and the conclusions of the prosecutor as to the degree of participation of each defendant. When the file was deemed complete, Mr. Achahui would be informed that he could review it. He and the twenty other attorneys in this case would each have a portion of the twelve hours allocated for reviewing the one copy of the file that would probably be well over two thousand pages. At best he could give a cursory reading to some parts and hope that the parts he did not have time to glance at were not important for Lori’s defense. After that, he would present a written defense to the judge, or possibly, if permitted, a short oral defense. Sentencing would take place twenty-four to forty-eight hours later. So each day we checked with Mr. Achahui to see if he had been notified about his access to the case file. As the week wore on it became clear that, despite rumors to the contrary, nothing would happen before Christmas. This did not stop newspapers from printing headlines, on several occasions reading Lori Berenson to be Sentenced Today. But I had long since learned that the Peruvian newspapers were not a good source of information.

As Christmas approached, Kathy and I had to decide how long we would stay in Peru. The embassy was already short-staffed and would have only a skeleton crew during the Christmas–New Year period. And dincote officials indicated that they too would be short of personnel and visits would be very brief or not permitted at all. It didn’t make sense to stay if we couldn’t visit Lori. And then, I had to return to New York, at least temporarily, to grade exams and submit final grades. Although I wanted to be in Peru when the judge issued his verdict, I knew that I would not be allowed to be with Lori when the verdict was announced. I would only hear about it on the news.

We were told that after the verdict, Lori would be moved to the maximum-security prison in Chorrillos, Lima, regardless of whether she was found guilty or innocent. According to Peruvian law, even if the judge declared Lori innocent, the police have an automatic appeal, and Lori would remain in prison during the appeals process. If Lori were found guilty, she could appeal while remaining incarcerated. We expected the verdict would come just after the new year. So Kathy and I decided to leave on the evening of December 21. Then I would return to Lima to visit Lori in Chorrillos, in early January.

Before we left, we brought Lori some things that she might need in Chorrillos, including a Bible. We were told that in some maximum-security prisons that was the only reading permitted. Lori gave us some personal items to hold for her in New York, because she was told that when prisoners moved from one prison to another, personal belongings often got left behind. Once again, we all tried to smile for each other, but this parting was very difficult. I tried not to think about Lori being alone for ten or more days in that horrible place. I would not be able to see her or speak with her, and with the embassy short-staffed, I might not get regular reports about her. But even if I stayed, I wouldn’t see her. I had to go.

As Kathy and I prepared to leave dincote, we couldn’t help but notice the cheerful Christmas decorations. I wondered if they also decorated the rooms that they used to torture detainees. As we waited for the elevator, we noticed the police dragging four-foot-tall bags each with a large Santa Claus face on it. The bags were filled with bullets and other ammunition they had taken from the house in La Molina. A surreal end to a surreal visit to Peru.

I returned to New York and completed the end of semester paperwork. From the last week of December until the middle of January, Mark and I were free from all teaching duties. In addition to the holidays, December 24 is our wedding anniversary, December 29 is Mark’s birthday, and the first week in January had, in recent years, been spent on vacation—away from work and away from the cold.

As soon as I returned we cancelled our vacation plans. But we decided to try as best we could to keep up some other traditions. For the past twenty or so years we celebrated our anniversary at a performance of the Alvin Ailey Dance Theater. Mark and I very much enjoy modern dance, and the Ailey Company, one of our favorites, is always in New York in December. So on December 24 we set out to celebrate thirty-two years of marriage with an evening at the ballet. But at the first intermission, we left. Neither of us could enjoy the performance.

Invariably, everything, then and every minute since Lori’s arrest, reminded us of her. That night we were reminded of the times she and Kathy had come with us to see the Ailey Company. Although neither of them ever became fans of ballet, they both enjoyed the Ailey signature piece, "Revelations," performed with a live gospel chorus.

We left the theater and walked along Fifth Avenue, toward Rockefeller Center with its big tree and Christmas angels. And Lori was everywhere. Across from Rockefeller Center we saw Saks Fifth Avenue, where Lori sang Christmas carols in 1982 and 1983 as part of her junior high school chorus. And on the next corner there was St. Patrick’s Cathedral, where Lori sang carols with her high school chamber chorus in 1986.

Musical reminders of Lori are inescapable. Music has always been so much part of her life. Wherever she traveled, she had a guitar. One of her greatest pleasures was learning and singing new music. The first thing she did when she came home was to pick up the guitar and sing for us. Between visits, she would send us tapes. We have tapes filled with old folk songs, classical choral pieces, and the music of Central and South America. Some tapes had a theme, like romantic melodies, old favorites, or Peruvian folk songs. Others have titles to remind us of the place or time when they were made, like "Lori in El Salvador" or—one of our favorites—"Lori with Mononucleosis."

So, on December 24 we went home early and we played a tape Lori had made for us in 1993. It opened with the message, "The next song I’m going to dedicate to my mother and father for their thirtieth wedding anniversary. It’s called "Amada Mia" and it would be sung from Dad to Mom." It was one of the most beautiful songs she sang. But on our thirty-second anniversary it only made us miss her more. Mark’s birthday on the 29^th was also sad. The family had a tradition of giving each other handmade birthday cards and, often, homemade gifts. This year, there was no card from Lori, and the tape of Afro-Peruvian music she had made especially for Mark’s fifty-fourth birthday now belonged to Colonel Gonzales.

On December 26, Gerry Fuller, the consular officer on duty for the holidays, called to say that he had visited Lori at dincote. Lori asked him to tell us that she was fine. She also thought I might be amused by the latest "2 a.m. incident." On Christmas Eve at about 2 a.m., she and three other prisoners were "invited" by the Colonel and members of the dincote staff to participate in a holiday toast, a toast to the demise of the mrta.

On January 3, Mr. Achahui was called to read the case file. He was allotted one hour and forty minutes to look through the more than two thousand pages that constituted the file on all twenty-one codefendants. He formally requested that the judge allow him one half hour for an oral defense, in addition to the written defense.

On January 4, Gerry Fuller informed us that Lori had been transferred from the dincote building to a small jail across the street. He said that conditions there were rather dismal. The cell was only six feet by six feet with a low ceiling, just about Lori’s height, and she was sharing it with Lucinda Rojas, a codefendant who had received five bullet wounds during the shootout in La Molina. They slept on mattresses on the floor. The mattresses filled the cell. The entire facility was filthy and rat-infested. Lori told Mr. Fuller that although she wasn’t being mistreated, her cellmate was receiving inadequate medical treatment. She had been operated on for her wounds, but it appeared that she was released too quickly from the hospital. She asked Mr. Fuller to inform us of the problem so that we could inform the International Red Cross.

With the help of Tom Nooter, we contacted the chief of the Red Cross delegation in Lima, who said that they were well aware of Ms. Rojas’ situation; the doctors had tried to visit her at the prison but were denied access. It was hard to imagine the cruelty of it. Depriving a detainee of needed medical treatment was surely a form of torture. And I knew that Lori must have been overwhelmed with frustration, wanting to get help for this unfortunate woman.

On the same day, the prosecuting attorney met with the judge. Neither Lori nor Mr. Achahui was permitted to attend this meeting, and we still do not know what specific charges the prosecutor made against Lori. All we learned was that the prosecutor asked that Lori be found guilty of treason and sentenced to thirty years in prison. Thirty years! We couldn’t believe it. I wanted to cry but I was numb. All our hopes now rested with the judge.

Mr. Achahui went before the judge on the morning of January 8, and he was allowed to present a twenty-minute oral argument. He argued that Lori was innocent and that nothing he saw in the file warranted a charge of treason, and further that the case should be moved to a civilian court.

That afternoon, we received calls from Reuters and Associated Press correspondents in Lima. They told us that Lori had been presented to the press. She was in civilian clothes, not the striped prison garb, and she spoke, actually shouted, for about a minute. Both reporters had taped her speech and said they would send us a transcript. They suggested we might be able to see it on a Spanish-language news broadcast in New York.

We watched the news and were frightened beyond belief by what we saw. Lori hardly looked like the same person I had seen eighteen days earlier. She was screaming, her face distorted as she yelled. She was disheveled. Her eyes looked like they belonged to someone else. I knew Lori’s eyes and these weren’t her eyes. At first I thought she had been drugged. She looked so angry. Then I remembered Lucinda Rojas, and I thought, of course Lori was angry. I guessed that she had not slept for days. The smiling, confident, calm Lori was gone. What had they done to her?

She had started speaking as she walked up the stairs to the stage and then stood, hands at her sides, flanked by two female guards in sunglasses and miniskirts. Some members of the audience were shouting, "Traison a la Patria," "Treason against the Fatherland." Other journalists shouted questions at her. But this was not a real press conference with questions and answers. The news broadcast only showed snippets, and the tv reporter spoke over Lori’s voice, so I never heard what she said. The scene then jumped to tables displaying all sorts of weapons. And lastly, I saw an interview with Colonel Gonzales who declared that Lori had just admitted her guilt, that she was a member of the mrta.

We were almost paralyzed with fright and overwhelmed with questions. Why was she presented when Colonel Gonzales said she wouldn’t be? Did they surround her with weapons to make it look like she was an arms dealer? Did they set her up to look guilty? The answers to those questions weren’t difficult to surmise. But there were other questions for which I had no answers. What had they done to Lori? Was she tortured? Was she okay now? I was sure that whatever happened to her would not have happened if I hadn’t left Peru. Maybe if I had stayed they might not have put her in the cell with Lucinda. Or maybe I could have helped Lucinda get the medical attention she needed. Or if I had been able to visit Lori, they couldn’t have mistreated her or Lucinda. It went on and on. I never should have left Peru. Now, more than four years later, at quiet moments these thoughts painfully return.

Some small relief came with the transcripts and then a translation of what she said. In spite of pronouncements by Colonel Gonzales, she never admitted any kind of guilt, and she never said she was a member of the mrta. More importantly, the words, if not the facial expressions, were from the Lori we knew—words of compassion and commitment.

I am to be condemned for my concern about the conditions of hunger and misery that exists in this country. Here nobody can deny that in Peru there is much injustice. There is an institutionalized violence that has killed the people's finest sons and has condemned children to die of hunger. If it is a crime to worry about the subhuman conditions in which the majority of this population lives, then I will accept my punishment. But this is not a love of violence. This is not to be a criminal terrorist because in the mrta there are no criminal terrorists. It is a revolutionary movement.

I love this people. I love this people and although this love is going to make—cost—me years in prison, I will never stop loving, and never will lose the hope and confidence that there will be a new day of justice in Peru.

Whatever had happened to make her shout these words, whatever had happened to distort her face, whatever had happened to make her so angry, nothing could stop her from expressing her concern for those suffering conditions of hunger and misery. She still carried the message of the care commercial she made twelve years before. She was still haunted by the thought of starving children, and if that was a crime, then she would accept her punishment.

We spoke to Julie Grant after she visited Lori and talked with her about this press presentation. She explained to Lori that the television commentary made it difficult to hear her words, and that the press had focused on her defiant tone, ignoring the words. When she told Lori that the press reported that she had admitted to being a militant, or member of the mrta, Lori immediately protested, saying that she had admitted no such thing. Yes, she did say that the mrta did not have "delinquent terrorists." She explained that she made a distinction, between "revolutionary" and "terrorist" organizations, and in her distinction the mrta was revolutionary. Then Lori quickly and emphatically added that she was not a terrorist and was incapable of participating in terrorist activities.

On January 9, all the newspapers, in Peru and the United States, carried a photo of Lori, mouth wide open and distorted, eyes wild. Neither tv nor print media included Lori’s words, only the image. A woman with a distorted face, screaming, is not very sympathetic. And what we recognized as anger was seen as defiance or militancy. People across Peru saw this picture and combined it in their minds with the picture of the weapons and the words of Colonel Gonzales. Everyone declared her to be guilty. No one ever heard what she said. No one cared what she said. And no one knew the whole story.

On January 11, specifically citing the press presentation as proof of Lori’s involvement, a hooded, anonymous judge found Lori guilty of treason and sentenced her to life in prison with no possibility of parole.