Paul replied blandly, "It could happen."
Not very encouraging. And there was another factor that he hadn't mentioned: bribery. This was what greased the ponderous wheels of the Bolivian bureaucracy—what motivated underpaid government employees to move things along. Even the most routine process, like getting a driver's license, required a dozen signatures and official seals, and often took several days. But with a little bribe money, even the driving test became optional. On the other hand, without bribes, the most trivial bureaucratic process could get bogged down indefinitely. But more than anything, working the system in Bolivia meant knowing the right people. I was an outsider.
It didn't look good, but I didn't have many options left. I asked Anderson to send me a list of Bolivian attorneys. A few days later it arrived. I noticed the disclaimer on the first page that stated the State Department didn't recommend or guarantee any of the attorneys on the list. I picked the first lawyer on the list who practiced family law.
Dr. Victor Castillo answered the phone himself, booming into the receiver in a rich baritone. For what seemed like the hundredth time, I explained the situation, this time in Spanish. Dr. Castillo (in Latin America, lawyers are addressed as "Doctor") seemed interested and knowledgeable. After I assured him that I had done nothing to deserve having my children taken away, he told me he was confident the Bolivian courts would do the right thing and give me my children back. He told me he would work closely with the U.S. Consulate on my case.
First of all, he said, he would check with the courts to see if Federico had already filed any papers for divorce or custody. In the meantime, I should go ahead and get my divorce finalized and the decree should spell out in no uncertain terms that I was the parent with legal custody. Then I needed to get the decree "legalized"—translated and stamped by the nearest Bolivian Consulate.
Finally I should send it to all Dr. Castillo. As soon as he got the papers, he explained, he would simply argue before the Bolivian Supreme Court for the formal recognition of the U.S. custody decree, in a process known as a writ of exequator. Federico's petition would then be thrown out. It seemed too easy.
"So you think there's a good chance that the Supreme Court will do that?" I asked.
"Oh, yes, you don't need to worry about that. I used to be a judge, and some of the Supreme Court justices are my personal friends."
"Will I need to come down there to appear in court?"
"No, that won't be necessary. There won't be any hearing. The Supreme Court justices will simply sign the papers and that's it."
"How long will this whole process take?"
"In one month you should be able to come down and pick up your children."
My heart began to hammer. It was almost January now. That meant that as early as February I might see my Jane and Michael again!
Before concluding our conversation, Dr. Castillo asked for a $1000 retainer. Paul Anderson had said that I could expect to spend several thousand dollars in a lawsuit for custody. Under the circumstances $1,000 seemed quite reasonable. In fact, it was a bargain, if it resulted in the return of my children. I told Dr. Castillo that I'd send it as soon as possible.
Within a week my father got the money and I sent a cashier's check in that amount to La Paz. Filled with renewed hope and energy, I set about getting the necessary papers together.
Mr. Rosenthal was skeptical about the sort of justice meted out by Bolivian courts. But I thought that right would prevail. Besides, there would be so many advantages to recovering the children under Bolivian law. First of all, it would vindicate me. Federico, his family, and the world at large would see that his accusations were groundless. Second, he would never be able to kidnap them again, at least not with Bolivia as a safe haven.
Third, if Jane and Michael were peacefully handed over to me, it would save them from unnecessary trauma. I was even optimistic that some kind of enforceable agreement could be worked out so they could visit Federico on occasion. I would've been willing to let them spend their summers there, if I could be sure that, with the backing of the Bolivian Government, Federico would always return them to me. If at all possible, I wanted them still to have both a mother and a father.
But for now the first order of business was the divorce. I had been postponing it for months, mainly because as long as I was married to Federico I was considered a Bolivian citizen, and I thought it might be an advantage, especially if I went to Bolivia. Now it was more important for me to have permanent custody under United States law.
Mr. Rosenthal drew up the divorce decree carefully. He thought that if we were too emphatic in denying Federico his rights, the Bolivian courts might balk. The decree gave me exclusive parental rights to Jane and Michael, but didn't specifically deny Federico any. It also spelled out that Federico was still responsible for paying child support. Although we knew there wasn't much chance that he'd abide by that provision, it was a way to hold him liable under the law should he ever show up in the United States again.
It was a chilly day in January when Mr. Rosenthal and I went to the courthouse for the divorce proceedings. In Judge Villarreal's chambers, Mr. Rosenthal briefly explained the terms of the divorce decree and in the space of five minutes it was over. Judge Villarreal shook my hand and grimly wished me luck. Later that month, divorce papers and translations in hand, I flew to Houston to get them legalized at the Bolivian Consulate.
Finally everything was in order, and I sent the papers by International Federal Express to Dr. Castillo, along with a laboriously written letter in Spanish that explained the background of it all.
One day late in January when I dialed Nila's number, Federico answered. It took me by surprise. I hadn't spoken with him since the kidnapping. He was guarded, but civil. When I asked if I could speak to Jane or Michael, he still refused.
"When will I be able to? Are you ever going to let me talk to them?"
"Maybe after more time has passed." I could picture him as he spoke: green eyes cold, lips set in a rigid line. I knew that look well.
"Are you ever going to let me see them again?"
"I don't know. It is better for them if they just forget you."
I felt the flush of anger rise up to my face. No, I told myself, don't let him get to you. I had to play this right. Only through him could I hope to reach Jane and Michael. I tried to appeal to his reason, if he had any left.
"Federico, if only we could've talked. All this could've been avoided if we had just talked to each other. But you wouldn't listen. You had all these crazy ideas in your head—"
"I knew the truth!" he shouted. "You fooled all your friends. You even had your lawyer fooled! But I knew what you were doing! Only I know the kind of person you really are!" Then he moved in for the kill: "Someday the kids will know too, and they'll hate you for it."
"What are you talking about? What was I doing?"
"You and your drug dealer boyfriend," he sneered. "I know you were using drugs. Irene found some in your room."
Irene? She was the Mexican nanny who had taken care of Jane and Michael while I was at work. She had worked for me for over a year. Why would she tell him stories like that? It didn't make sense.
I struggled to stay calm. "Look, Federico. I don't know why Irene would make up something like that. But think. Use your head! You knew me for eleven years! Did I ever, in all that time, show the slightest interest in drugs?"
But he wasn't listening. He was off and running, cursing and shouting. I tried to break in a few more times, but it was no use. I hung up the phone and sat there, shaken. Why would Irene lie? Or if she didn't lie, what could she have possibly seen that she thought was evidence of drug use?
"Maybe Irene had a crush on Federico," When I told her about it later, Susan asked, "Didn't he sit down and talk with her a lot before he moved out?"
Yes, Federico had always talked more with Irene than I had. They shared the same language, and he was just more talkative than I was. Maybe I should have been more buddy-buddy with Irene.
That was possible, too. He'd done it before. After he'd filed for custody, Federico had once called my pastor and told him an outlandish story about Michael knocking on a neighbor's door at 2 A.M., asking where his mommy was. According to Federico, I'd gone out and left the children alone. In his scenario the neighbor summoned the police. No such thing had ever happened, except in Federico's imagination.
On February 2, 1988, a few weeks after my conversation with Federico, I finally got to talk to the Jane and Michael. Federico had answered the phone. To avoid getting into another senseless argument, I asked without preamble if I could talk to Jane and Michael. To my surprise, he said "Yes." I was numb with delight and apprehension. After all the weeks and months of fruitless phone calls, I would finally hear their voices again. I clutched the receiver, scarcely daring to breathe.
"Hello?" came a child's voice, sounding familiar and yet unfamiliar.
I struggled to control my voice. "Michael?"
A giggle, then, "No, this is Jane." She sounded so young, like such a baby.
"Jane, this is Mommy." There was so much to say, yet so little that I could say—Federico might be listening in. "How are you, honey?"
"Fine."
"I love you, Jane. I miss you."
"I miss you, too," she said dutifully.
"Did you get the things I sent you for Christmas?"
"Yes. I got the Barbie. And you know what else? Daddy got me a My Little Pony, the one I wanted."
She went on, rattling off a list of what she'd gotten for Christmas. I drank in the sound of her voice. But there was something different about it. She spoke with an unmistakable Spanish accent. Her chatter wound down, and there was a short silence.
"Do you want to talk to Michael now?"
"Yes. I love you. I miss you," I said again. Then Michael's voice, even more high-pitched and babyish.
"Hi, Mommy."
He was telling me something about swimming lessons. "But nee know what?" He meant “you know what.” I’d forgotten how he said that phrase, so familiar to me not so long ago
"When we got in the water it was cold. I got scared and wanted to go home."
My heart quickened. "You wanted to come home? Here with me?"
"No, Mommy. Home. With abuelita."
I bit my lip. Of course. By now his grandmother's house was home. "How are the lessons now? Are you learning how to swim better?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember your swimming lessons here, when I took you to that big pool last summer?" Please remember the home you used to have.
But he was talking about his Christmas presents now. Then Federico was back on the phone.
"Thank you for letting me talk to them," I said, my voice finally breaking.
"'Take care," he said stiffly.
Reluctantly I laid the phone back into its cradle. I could tell they were all right. That was an immense relief. Yet how I had ached to hear them say, "Mommy, we miss you! Come get us. We want to go home!" I laid my head on the back of the chair and sobbed.
After that, Federico let me talk to the children whenever I called. When I said I missed them and loved them, they dutifully parroted my words. But as time passed, they seemed a little more subdued with each call. What did that mean? That they weren't as happy as I thought? That they were forgetting me? Maybe they just didn't know what to say. Federico had already taken them from me physically. Now he was robbing me of their minds and hearts, too. I felt like I was standing on a shore shouting and waving as they sailed farther and farther out to sea. Maybe in the beginning they watched me and waved, but now they were facing the other way.
By this time, my confidence in Victor Castillo had begun to fade. In spite of all the doomsaying by Mr. Rosenthal and my family, I had clung to the belief that the law—even Bolivian law—would be on my side. But as time went by, the bland assurances of Dr. Castillo started to sound hollow. What was supposed to take only a couple of months was taking much longer. In fact, he hadn't taken the first step yet, presenting my documents to the Bolivian Supreme Court. Dr. Castillo had plenty of plausible excuses for the delays: He had to get extra documents translated and legalized. The Supreme Court was not in session now. There was a general strike in the country, and offices were closed indefinitely. There was a transportation strike, and all flights to Sucre, the seat of the Supreme Court, were cancelled.
So much for following the rules.
Chapter Eight
It was a Friday afternoon in February, and I sat in Mr. Rosenthal’s office.
"Even if I had it, I wouldn't pay $100,000 for some sleazy mercenary to grab Jane and Michael. I wouldn't put them through that. It's worse than what Federico did."
"Well, you sure can't go down there," Mr. Rosenthal said, not for the first time. What if I got thrown in jail and was left to rot forever in the bowels of some Bolivian prison? What if I got killed? That kind of thing happened, he would say.
"It would be stupid for you to go when there are professionals to do the job. What could you possibly do that they couldn't do better? Yes, the kids might be scared for awhile. But they'd forget all about that once they saw you."
"It’s too early to think about all that. I'm going to wait and see what Dr. Castillo says next time I talk to him."
I still had hopes for a legal solution. Mr. Rosenthal rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. "I might as well be talking to that ashtray."
He took a puff from his cigar, then said casually, "I know somebody who could do it."
"Who?" In spite of myself I was interested.
"A private investigator. Ex-FBI. He's done some work for the firm—locating missing witnesses, that sort of thing. Gayle knows him real well." Gayle was another attorney at the firm. "All I can tell you is that this guy says he could do it."
"How do you know?"
"I've already talked to him. Whenever you decide it's time, I can arrange for you to meet him."
My weekly phone calls with Dr. Castillo made it clear that he hadn't done anything he'd promised to do. I still occasionally toyed with the idea of a resnatch, but only in theory. I didn't have the means to carry it out.
Then, the first miracle happened. My stepsister Courtney’s father, a surgeon in Houston, had died suddenly in January. Daddy had been handling the probating of his estate for Courtney. He called me one afternoon in February to tell me that as the only heir, Courtney had inherited a small fortune. One of the first things she wanted to do was use part of it to help me get Jane and Michael back.
When I broke the news to Mr. Rosenthal, he whistled softly. "Now you can hire somebody to go down and get the kids."
"I don't know." Now that the doors were opening, I was afraid to step through them. It had taken a lot of soul-searching to reach the relative equanimity I now felt. I had finally reached the stage where I didn't wonder a hundred times a day where Jane and Michael were, what they were doing, what they were thinking. Besides, I'd just about reached the conclusion that for some reason I'd never understand, that they were better off in Bolivia with their father. Why else had every avenue been blocked? Why else had I run up against brick wall after brick wall?
"Cass, they're kids," Mr. Rosenthal said. "As long as they're reasonably well cared for, they'll adapt wherever they are. But that doesn't mean they're better off there. They'd still be a hundred times better off with you. There's not a scrap of doubt in my mind about that."
Too bad I couldn't be as sure as he was. How nice it would be to be sure of something for a change. I was learning to live with doubts. I'd heard somewhere that our job on earth was not to understand, but to live. That's what I'd been trying to do—to learn to accept the unacceptable, to live with the unlivable. To accept that I didn’t know or understand and maybe never would.
Just when I thought there was hope, my guts would be ripped out all over again. I'd been peeled like an onion, layer after layer, until I didn
’t have any protective coating left. Before, I'd rarely cried. Now, anything could make me cry—a passage of music, the sight of bougainvillea in bloom, a line of poetry. Everything was so precious to me now, maybe because I knew it could all disappear in an instant. I didn't count on anything; I didn't expect anything. I didn't waste my time trying to mold people or circumstances to the way I wanted them to be. I tried to enjoy what there was, here and now, because that was all I could count on. There was a kind of peace in it.
Yet a door had opened. I couldn't turn from it.
"Okay, I'll talk to this guy. I want to see what he has in mind. But if I decide to hire him, it would be on one condition: that I'm the first one to lay hands on the kids."
Mr. Rosenthal ignored my last statement, but he looked pleased. A few days later he told me that the private investigator, whose name was Lloyd Barber, would be in town Friday. He could see me that evening after work.
At 5:05 P.M. on Friday, March 4, 1988, I waited nervously in the unaccustomed grandeur of the managing partner’s office. Since he was out of town, Mr. Rosenthal had designated his office as the meeting place for Mr. Barber and me. Unlike the contemporary sleekness of Mr. Rosenthal’s office, with its transparent clocks and metal sculptures, the head partner’s office boasted the usual trappings—dark wall paneling, leather sofas, and a massive wooden desk.
Finally there was a short knock on the door and Lloyd Barber walked in. He brought to mind J. Edgar Hoover. He had the same brooding bulldog face and powerful, stocky body. He was balding, and his hair was gray. He didn't smile as he shook my hand, introduced himself, and lowered his considerable bulk into a chair. He had already been briefed on the situation by Mr. Rosenthal and began without preamble. His voice was hoarse and low.
"I think I can help you, but first I need to know a few things. Tell me everything you know—where your children are, who they're living with, something about your ex-husband."
"All I know is that Jane and Michael are living with Federico in his mother's apartment. They're not in school yet, since it's summer vacation now in Bolivia. I don't know what school they'll be going to."
Where Are My Children? The True Story of a Mother Who Risked Her Life to Rescue Her Kidnapped Children Page 7