Chapter Five
Wednesday, November 18, 1987
The next day was spent in another tangle of red tape. At the FBI office we met with an agent who wore blue jeans and a beard, not at all my idea of what an FBI agent would look like. But I figured that since he was based in the Rio Grande Valley, he was probably doing drug undercover work. He took down the information that Mr. Rosenthal and I gave him and examined the photographs that I brought of the children and Federico. He explained that all he could do was to petition the U.S. Attorney's Office to issue a UFAP (a warrant alleging unlawful flight to avoid prosecution). Under a UFAP, Federico could be detained anywhere in the United States and brought back to Texas for prosecution. And what if he wasn't anywhere in the United States? I asked. The agent shook his head; once a fugitive got beyond the borders of the United States, even the FBI couldn't touch him.
In the meantime my father, also a lawyer, got a copy of the extradition treaty between the U.S. and Bolivia and sent me one. Parental kidnapping wasn't an offense under which a person could be extradited from Bolivia.
The next step was to call the State Department in Washington. I was directed to a businesslike young man in the Office of Consular Affairs. He told me there was nothing that the United States government could do to get my children back.
"They're under the jurisdiction of Bolivia now," he said matter-of-factly. "And especially since they were born there, they're considered to be Bolivian citizens, Bolivia will do everything in its power to keep them there."
"But they're American citizens too!" I protested. When they were only six weeks old I'd registered them at the U.S. Consulate and gotten them U.S. passports.
He went on in a neutral voice, "Of course, you could engage the services of a Bolivian lawyer and try to get legal custody of them through the Bolivian courts."
I knew how entrenched the corruption was in the Bolivian government and dismissed that option without a second thought.
"Isn't there anything else I can do? Can't my own country do anything to help me?"
"The only thing we have the authority to do is to send someone from the American Consulate to do what they called a welfare and whereabouts check. They can try to find out where the children are and how they are being cared for." I asked him to arrange for the visit and gave him my mother-in-law's address. That was the most likely place for Federico to have gone. If only I knew for certain.
That week there were more trips to the courthouse and to the sheriff's office. A warrant for Federico's arrest was issued, and photographs of Federico and the children were wired to all international airports.
"By the way," Lisa Murillo, the investigator at the sheriff's office, said, "We ran a routine check on Mr. Bascope. Did you know he was arrested for shoplifting from a major department store in Austin in 1978?"
That had been a few months before we were married. "No, I didn't." I wondered again if I had ever really known him.
Several days later, with some inside help from a travel agent, we finally received a passenger list for a flight from Miami to La Paz dated November 14, 1987. I stared at the list in my hands, the first piece of concrete information we'd managed to get since their disappearance. There were their names in black and white—Freddy, Jane, and Michael Bascope—departed Miami Saturday, November 14, 1987, and arrived in La Paz, Bolivia, Sunday, November 15, 1987. There were gone before I had even suspected it.
The phone was ringing. Twice, three times, six times. Silence again. A tiny sliver of light came through a gap in the curtains and pierced the darkness in the room. What day was it? Oh, yes, Monday...I should get up and go to work. But I couldn't get up. I should at least call in sick. I couldn't force myself to reach over and pick up the phone.
Gradually I became aware that my pillow was soggy. A steady stream of tears was sliding down my face. Had I been crying in my sleep? How strange. I dispassionately wondered about it for a moment. The tears kept coming, like a faucet left running in an empty house. My stomach growled, but the thought of food made me feel sick. I shut my eyes and tried to sleep again, to blot out awareness.
The phone rang again. I finally answered it.
"Hey, Cass, what's going on?" It was Mr. Rosenthal sounding like his usual cheerful self. "Aren't you coming to work today?"
"I don't think so."
"Why not?"
"Because. I just...can't." I couldn't gather my thoughts enough to give him a better answer.
"Are you still in bed?"
"Yes."
"Well, you can't just lie around all day. That's not going to do you any good."
"I know. I just need a little time."
More cheerfulness. "Hey, kid, we got a lot done in just one week's time." He ticked off our accomplishments: court orders, warrants, cables to all ports of exit from the United States, starting the process for the FBI to issue a UFAP, getting our hands on the airline records.
"I appreciate what you've done," I said. "None of it would have happened without you."
It was true. He had dropped everything to help me in that first week after Jane and Michael had disappeared. What I didn't say was that the blizzard of court orders and writs and warrants—all the frantic activity of the week before—had not really accomplished anything. Even the long arm of Texas law could not stretch as far as Bolivia. Jane and Michael might as well be on the moon.
Mr. Rosenthal asked, "When do you think you'll be coming in. Tomorrow? You've got work to do, you know."
"I don't know."
"Do you need anything?"
"No, I'm OK."
Kathy had already come over once with food, but I wasn’t hungry. I didn't want anybody to be bothered. I just wanted to be left alone.
"Well, call if you need anything. Okay?"
"I will."
I already felt immensely indebted to him. He had spent hours tracking down my children and covered court costs that I couldn’t afford. Just as important were his advice, consolation, and reassurance. He'd had no idea what he was taking on when he agreed to take my case.
I remembered the first time I'd sat in his office, feeling a bit intimidated. He often had that effect on people. Not that he wasn't friendly. He'd stride through the office and boom greetings right and left, leaving a trail of cigar smoke in his wake. But he was also known for not suffering fools gladly.
It was embarrassing to trot out the story of my failed marriage again; I'd already gone through it with my first lawyer. And here I would have to do it all over again, and what was worse, with someone I saw at work every day.
Mr. Rosenthal sat back in his chair, listening and asking an occasional question. I told him Federico had filed for divorce back in February. He'd given me custody of the children in his divorce petition. Then, three months later, he'd suddenly decided he wanted custody, and he'd asked the court for a jury trial to decide the issue.
"Hmm," Mr. Rosenthal had mused. "I don't know much about family law, but it's unusual in a custody case to ask for a jury trial. Normally the judge would be the one to decide that."
"That's one of the things that worries me," I said. "Down here you know that juries are 90 percent Hispanic. I'm afraid they'll side with him because he's Hispanic, too."
Mr. Rosenthal leaned forward and knocked the ashes off the end of his cigar. The fragrance of it filled the room.
"That shouldn't make any difference. In fact, a predominantly Latin American jury would be more likely to have traditional values. It would find favor the mother keeping her children, unless she's done something they consider pretty bad." He lifted his eyes to mine. "Have you done anything that falls into that category?"
I met his gaze.
"He accused me of adultery, of seeing another man."
Mr. Rosenthal's face didn't change expression. "Were you?"
"After he moved out, I started going out with somebody, yes. I thought it was okay—I know he was dating, too."
"Yes, but technically you were still married."
"No, not under the circumstances."
"Actually, Federico knew I was seeing somebody weeks before he ever filed for custody of the kids. So the fact that I was seeing somebody wasn't the issue."
"How did he find out?"
"He asked me and I told him."
Mr. Rosenthal groaned. Count on a lawyer to expect you to consider the legal consequences of your every move.
"If he already knew, what made him file for custody all of a sudden, weeks after the fact?"
"Somebody told him that Marco was a drug dealer. He's not, of course," I added quickly.
"At least not that you know of," Mr. Rosenthal said. He took another puff of his cigar. I wondered what he must be thinking of me. It all sounded so tawdry.
I shook my head. "I know he's not. Anyway, right after Federico filed for custody of the kids, his lawyer offered to make me a deal: if I agreed never to see Marco again, he'd give up his custody suit. I didn't want to risk losing my kids, so I agreed."
"Have you quit seeing this guy?"
"Yes. My lawyer said if I didn’t, it would give Federico more ammunition."
"Ammunition" was a good word to describe it—the whole thing had turned into a battle, with the kids caught in the crossfire. It turned out that breaking it off with Marco hadn't done any good. Federico had remained convinced I was still seeing him.
It was much later, after the custody war had gotten complicated and ugly and after we knew each other better, that Mr. Rosenthal asked me in exasperation why I'd ever gotten involved with Marco in the first place. Why couldn't I have waited a few months?
It was an age-old story, as common as mud. Women got into affairs with a man they could talk to, a man who listened when nobody was listening at home. It happened all the time. But I thought I was the last person such a thing could happen to, and Marco the last person on earth it could happen with. I'd met him in the public library. He was putting himself through college by working there as a reference librarian. When I was doing research for book reviews, he'd help me find information. In spite of the fact that he was ten years younger than I was, we became friends.
He was polite and a little shy at first. He was not conventionally handsome, yet when he smiled his eyes crinkled and his face lit up. As soon as he saw me, Marco would drop whatever he was doing and come to see what I needed, grinning from ear to ear. I started looking forward to my trips to the library. I told myself I was imagining things. What could Marco possibly see in me, an older woman with two kids in tow, when he could have his pick of younger girls?
He made me feel beautiful and fascinating. He thought I was perfect, and he let me know it. We seemed to understand each other without speaking, yet we could talk about anything. His sense of humor made me laugh, yet he had a quiet integrity and wisdom beyond his years. We seemed to bring out the best in each other. Marco told me that he wouldn't want to change anything about me, even my faults, because they were a part of me too. And he was a wonderful lover, tender, intense, playful. I couldn't have prevented myself from falling in love if I'd tried. And I didn't try. For once in my life I didn't weigh the pros and cons and go into paroxysms of indecision. I let myself tumble into it without a thought for tomorrow.
Yet I knew it wasn't something that would last forever. I had already seen how love's first bloom always faded into something altogether different, and I couldn't stand the thought of that happening to us. We never asked questions. We didn't make any rules and we took nothing for granted. I never lived so nearly in the moment as I did then.
I didn't try to explain all this to Mr. Rosenthal. I was sure that he saw it simply as an affair. The word was so bald and ugly. It wasn't like that at all, I wanted to tell him. Mr. Rosenthal continued with his questions and we moved on to other topics of discussion.
During that second week after the children disappeared, I spent days in bed and managed to remain barely conscious most of the time. Sleep was a great escape, except for the dreams. I'd wake up with a feeling of foreboding but no memory of what I'd been dreaming. Except for one vivid nightmare in which I was desperately searching the narrow gray streets of La Paz. In one of those dreams I finally found Jane and Michael in a schoolyard, and they stared at me without recognition. Afterward, I woke up in a cold sweat.
Kathy called once or twice a day to check on me. One morning, toward the end of the week, she put Mr. Rosenthal on the line.
"Cass, can I expect to see you in the office today?"
"No. Not today." Silence.
"Cass, you gotta snap out of it. Don't let him win. He's got your kids—don't let him get you too."
Why not? I thought. Who cares about winning now?
"I just need a little more time."
"Time for what?" He was starting to sound exasperated.
"I guess to grieve."
"They're not dead, for Christ's sake!"
"It's as if they were. They're gone. I may never see them again."
"You'll see them again. I promise you that. It might be six months from now, or a year, or ten years from now. But you'll see them again."
Even six months seemed an eternity, an unendurable absence. At their age, they changed so fast. In six months' time they would be different people altogether. A picture of Michael as I'd last seen him flashed across my mind. He was hugging my knees, his upturned face grinning, freckles sprinkled across his nose. How he hated those freckles! I'd get him dressed and combed for church and tell him, "Michael, you sure look handsome."
He'd stand scowling in front of the mirror and grumble, "Except for my freckles."
And Jane, my "princess and the pea," so sensitive that any little bump or scratch would make her toss and turn all night. How many times had I examined a patch of skin for an invisible bug bite? What must be going through her impressionable mind now?
I'd read about what happens when children are kidnapped. In six months' time, like hostages, they would form a strong bond with Federico. They would have no choice but to transfer all their love and trust to the person upon whom they were dependent. And who knew what Federico was telling them to hurry the process along—to chip away at their memories of me.
And then the next most painful thought sprang up: in time they would forget me. They were so young.
"How can they forget you?" Mr. Rosenthal asked. "You're too much a part of them. When I saw Michael that day in the office, I saw your sense of humor in him. The sparkle in Jane's eyes—that comes from you. They'll always have you with them."
He went on, " Look, I don't know what you believe. But I believe that people eventually get what they deserve. He won't get away with this. Someday it'll all come back to him."
I felt so weary. I didn't want revenge. Hadn't there already been enough suffering?
"Cass, you can't just lie down and die. You've got to pick yourself up and get on with things."
"I will. But right now I just can't. I know it's hard for you to understand."
Mr. Rosenthal was always so full of spark and energy. As far as I knew, he'd never faced real personal tragedy before. He was successful, happily married, with three bright and accomplished children. He'd never lost a loved one—even his parents were still alive.
"Maybe I can't. But I'll try," he said.
Trying to marshal my thoughts, I spoke slowly. "Imagine the very worst thing that could happen to you—whatever that is—something so terrible that you fear and dread it above anything else. Something so bad that you can't stand to think about it or hear about it or be reminded it could happen. Then—somehow it happens."
There was silence for a few moments. Like the story of Job, after all the haranguing and advising from Job's friends, they finally fell silent and simply sat with Job through his suffering. There was nothing more comforting they could have done.
The Plan
Chapter Six
It was the third week after Jane and Michael disappeared, and I
was ready to take action again. I started back to work—if you could call it work. As a paralegal I was supposed to bill a certain number of hours a day to the cases I worked on. Instead my timesheet lay practically untouched as I made phone calls and wrote letters and plotted strategy about the only thing I could concentrate on: how to get Jane and Michael back. And I wanted it to happen in a way that would spare them any more trauma, if that was possible.
I'd read an article about a woman who'd hired mercenaries to re-kidnap her daughter from South Africa. She got her daughter back all right—after a hair-raising tug-of-war between the mercenary and the father, with the child screaming in the middle. I didn't want Jane and Michael to go through anything like that. Besides, through discreet inquiries Mr. Rosenthal had already found out that such an undertaking required money—lots of it. I didn't have that kind of money. And I knew I couldn't do it by myself. At the time, Bolivia was a military dictatorship with heavily guarded borders and police checkpoints everywhere. Federico had had it easy. All he had to do was put the kids on a plane and fly away. I knew it would be much more complicated to get them out of Bolivia.
Besides, it was my nature to do things by the book, to play by the rules. I decided to pursue a different course of action, one that was perhaps less dramatic but one that I thought would produce results.
I started a letter-writing campaign to Federico's relatives. I spent hours writing carefully worded letters in Spanish to them all: his sister Ana Maria, his brothers Edgar and Rene, my sister-in-law Lily, and my mother-in-law Nila. Surely they would listen to me. From the beginning Mr. Rosenthal thought it was a waste of time and postage. In the end he was, of course, right. Not one of them answered.
At the same time I was writing them letters, I began trying to telephone them directly. My friend Susan volunteered her pleasantly cluttered house to place the phone call, and to serve as emotional support. She was also my language backup, in case in the heat of the moment I forgot how to speak intelligible Spanish, which she spoke better than I did. This was a humbling fact, considering she'd spent only two years in Spain compared with my six-and-a-half years in Bolivia.
Where Are My Children? The True Story of a Mother Who Risked Her Life to Rescue Her Kidnapped Children Page 5