Somewhere Inside Part 14

There I was in the middle of the "hood," and this woman was asking about Laura. I was moved to speechlessness. I smiled and yelled back, "We still don't know."

"I'm praying for her, girl!" she replied.

Then, no less than five minutes later, a tall, very thin man who looked homeless appeared and began to walk toward me. He looked me up and down before saying, "Hey, have you found your sister? I've been praying for her."

I was in a part of Los Angeles known for violence and mayhem; these were streets where killings occurred regularly, but on that day it felt like home to me. These people, whose lives could not be more different from mine, were saying prayers for my sister despite their obviously challenging predicaments. The reactions I was getting from people from so many different walks of life told me that our story was one that people seemed to rally around. I deeply appreciated the support-and I needed it.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

glimmers of hope LAURA.

OFTEN, WHEN P PARIS WASN'T in the room, one of the other guards would go through her belongings, curiously inspecting objects that were foreign to her. She would apply Paris's mascara to her own lashes, flip through her Czech language book, and dab Paris's foundation onto her skin. in the room, one of the other guards would go through her belongings, curiously inspecting objects that were foreign to her. She would apply Paris's mascara to her own lashes, flip through her Czech language book, and dab Paris's foundation onto her skin.

One day Paris left her cell phone in the room unattended. Captivated by the small black gizmo, the wide-eyed guard picked it up gingerly, pressed her stubby fingers onto the b.u.t.tons, and unintentionally turned off the phone. Confused, she shook the gadget up and down, trying to wake it up. I could see she was getting nervous; Paris could walk into the room at any moment and see her handling the prized possession. Suddenly the panicky guard turned to me, approached, and held the phone out. I was apprehensive about taking it from her in case Paris entered the room and thought I was trying to call someone. But the guard pressed the phone into my hand with a look of desperation. I grabbed the object, wis.h.i.+ng I could indeed dial my sister's number and hear her sweet voice. I pressed the green telephone icon, holding the b.u.t.ton down long enough for the phone to come on, and quickly returned it to the guard, who rushed back to her area and placed the phone back where it belonged. Within moments, Paris returned. The guard innocently turned the pages of her tattered book, pretending to be engrossed in its story.

Like the two guards, Paris was cold and curt with me when I first met her. But rather than staring at me endlessly as the two guards did, Paris seemed uninterested in my existence. My presence seemed more of a nuisance to her than anything else. She was brought in to interpret for me, not necessarily to guard me, and her uppity att.i.tude conveyed her higher sense of being.

One day I asked if she knew why I was being held in medical detention.

"Of course I know. Everyone in the country knows. It was all over the news," she replied.

I wondered how the government news readers had characterized me and my crimes. "So, what do the people say about my colleague and me? How do they feel about us?" I asked.

"It's not like people talk about your situation in the streets, but they are aware of what you did, and no one is happy about it."

I was hesitant to talk about our doc.u.mentary for fear that I would be accused of trying to brainwash her. Instead, I said only, "When I was arrested, I was working on a doc.u.mentary about people who leave North Korea. I wanted to help these people and bring greater awareness to the situation of those who are suffering. I know people here believe I had hostile intentions. I just want you to know that I am sorry if my actions could have hurt anybody."

She listened intently. "The rest of the world thinks that North Korea is a horrible place," she said pa.s.sionately. "And you probably won't believe me when I tell you that we really like living here. We are very proud of our country and what we have been able to achieve."

I couldn't help but think she was speaking for the elite group like herself who have cell phones and MP3 players.

"We don't like living without electricity and water," she went on. "We know we are not a rich country. But it is the United States that has put sanctions on us and has deprived us of these things. What did we ever do to the United States?" Paris wasn't the only person I'd spoken with who blamed the U.S. sanctions for North Korea's lack of electricity. This was a common theme discussed by my other guards and Mr. Yee. To them, every blackout-and they happen multiple times a day-reminds them of the evil U.S. enemy that is trying to hold North Korea down. I could understand the immense pride the people of North Korea feel about their nuclear program, which in their eyes is a step toward becoming a self-sufficient, powerful nation.

"I do hope our two countries can become friends over time," I said.

"I believe you," Paris replied forgivingly.

LISA.

IT HAD BEEN WEEKS since we'd heard anything about the activities Al Gore was engaged in. Every few days I'd shoot an e-mail to him and Kurt asking if they had heard anything. I kept getting variations on the same response: "no," "nothing yet," "no new news." since we'd heard anything about the activities Al Gore was engaged in. Every few days I'd shoot an e-mail to him and Kurt asking if they had heard anything. I kept getting variations on the same response: "no," "nothing yet," "no new news."

It appeared that whatever communication was under way with North Korea had gone dark. The discussions we thought were taking place seemed to have ceased entirely. Some of those advising me, with knowledge of North Korean etiquette, told me that nonresponsiveness was their way of saying no. In other words, it was becoming increasingly apparent that sending Al Gore to North Korea was not going to happen. This was perhaps one of the most frustrating periods of the whole ordeal.

If former Vice President Gore had been rejected, what could the North Koreans possibly want? We had reached an impa.s.se. We were starting to feel doomed. My sister and Euna were the first Americans ever to be tried in North Korea's Supreme Court. They were the first Americans to be sentenced to serve time in a labor prison. Was it possible that they would be the first Americans to actually have to carry out their sentence?

Toward the end of June, an actress I know referred me to an international businessman of Chinese descent who travels in and out of Pyongyang regularly. I can't use his real name, because anything having to do with North Korea engenders suspicion. Here I'll call him Robert Hong. His resume reads like a page out of a capitalist manifesto. He claims expertise in a plethora of areas, including tax consulting, gaming, telecom, media mining, financial services, property development, biotech, entertainment, and banking. He claims to hold official positions with four governments and is consulted by presidents, prime ministers, and other state leaders who value his advice.

I reached him by phone a couple of weeks before he was to make another trip to Pyongyang. He told me he would be flying there from Beijing for a series of meetings that would take place over the course of twenty-five hours. After several conversations with him, I still couldn't get a grasp of what he was actually going there to do. He told me he had some international investors interested in pouring millions of dollars into the Communist state. I asked him if he could help us. For a fee, he told me, he could persuade those holding the girls to release them-he was fairly certain of it. He said that doing it his way would yield far better results than if we continued to wait for governments to communicate. That, he said, would take forever.

"This is how you do things there," Robert said. "If you wait for the U.S. government, it will never get done. The situation is too bad right now. We should try to get them out quietly."

I didn't know what kind of money we were talking about, and I didn't ask. I figured that if he were successful, I would find a way to repay him, even if it meant that our family had to sell everything we owned.

On July 6, Robert sent me a text saying that he was leaving Beijing for Pyongyang and that he would reach me as soon as he got out.

LAURA.

THE NEW MAN IN CHARGE, whom the judge referred to as my "guarantor," did not take walks with me outside, but I was allowed to walk along one side of the building under the supervision of my guards for thirty minutes each day. At first I misunderstood where the boundaries were and continued to walk along the perimeter of an off-limits area. My guards must have been confused as well, because they continued to let me wander. Suddenly I heard the guarantor shouting at me to turn around. Paris rushed over and told me I was not permitted in any area beyond the short length of one specific wall. My curiosity was piqued, and I became convinced that Euna was being held on the other side of the building. I pretended to cough loudly, hoping she might hear me and know I was nearby.

As I jogged back and forth within the permitted area, I noticed some workers installing a set of floodlights around the perimeter of the building. It seemed they were increasing the security of the area.

BEFORE THE TRIAL I had been receiving batches of letters every week or two. But under my new supervisors, I hadn't received any letters in almost a month. I was desperate for information from back home and news of any progress. I repeatedly asked the guards if there were any letters for me, but my inquiries went unanswered. I had been receiving batches of letters every week or two. But under my new supervisors, I hadn't received any letters in almost a month. I was desperate for information from back home and news of any progress. I repeatedly asked the guards if there were any letters for me, but my inquiries went unanswered.

The discomfort in my abdomen continued to worsen. It felt as if knives were stabbing me in my lower stomach area. I threw up every bite of food that I ate, and a doctor was called upon to see me. The doctor was a gentle woman who appeared to be in her late fifties. She continued to conduct regular checkups on me once, sometimes twice, a week. I looked forward to her visits because they were an opportunity to interact with another person, even if it was just to talk about my health. I told her about my pains as well as my inability to sleep at night. She determined that I had a mild appendicitis and prescribed some antibiotics as well as diazepam, an older form of Valium, to help me sleep. The guards would administer the medication to me each day to make sure I wasn't taking more than the allowed dosage. Each night when the guards cranked up the volume on the television while watching the evening's Korean War flick, I popped a diazepam and drifted away.

Every morning, along with the antibiotics, I was given a packet of Emergen-C, an effervescent vitamin drink mix manufactured in California. I was surprised when I saw the familiar blue and yellow packaging. I had often taken Emergen-C back home whenever I felt the slightest onset of a cold. I wondered where the North Koreans had gotten this supply of the citrus-flavored powder, given the sanctions that barred any importation of goods from the United States into North Korea. I felt bad that it might have come from an aid s.h.i.+pment and that it was being used on me, not on the North Korean citizenry who need it the most.

It had been a month since the trial, and for most of that time I'd been largely secluded. Then I was told that someone was coming to see me in the afternoon. I wondered if it was Mr. Yee. I hadn't heard from him since the last time we walked outside together, when he told me he'd try to visit me once a week. I waited anxiously, hoping he might be bringing some positive news from back home.

I heard footsteps approaching the room, followed by a faint knocking. The door swung open and I saw Mr. Baek standing in the entryway. I was happy to see him. Mr. Baek had always been kind to me and I missed his cheery disposition.

"Hi!" I said enthusiastically.

Though I could tell he was glad to see me, he was much more reserved than his usual self. After seeing whom he was with, I understood why he seemed so staid. Following Mr. Baek into the room was the prosecutor from the trial, along with the doctor and an older gentleman I had never seen before. The prosecutor wore the same imposing expression that never ceased to rattle me. He looked me over with the same indignant scowl that had greeted me on a number of occasions.

He began by saying it was his job to send me to the labor camp and that he was checking to see if my health had improved enough for me to go to prison. He questioned the doctor and asked for her a.s.sessment. According to the doctor, I was improving, but she thought I still needed a little more time for my appendicitis to heal.

"I thought that since you were in medical detention, your government might have done something to get you home before we sent you to prison," the prosecutor said. "But, it doesn't look as if they are doing anything. You should prepare yourself to go to the labor camp soon."

I was surprised to hear that no progress had been made. A month had pa.s.sed since the trial, and I was hoping that what Amba.s.sador Foyer had said was true, that the trial was a necessary part of the process, that the U.S. government needed a justification such as a long and unfair prison sentence in order to act.

"So, nothing has been done? There has been no word from my government?" I asked the prosecutor.

The older man sitting on the couch beside me began to chuckle. "Your government has been silent," he said. "Al Gore has offered to come here on a humanitarian mission, but he is the head of your company. Your government is trying to pa.s.s off your situation to your company rather than get involved. That is not acceptable."

His words felt like a sharp blade to the neck. I recalled the letter I had given to Amba.s.sador Foyer weeks before the trial, which was meant for my bosses at Current TV. In it, I asked if Vice President Gore would agree to be sent to North Korea as an envoy. My suggestion was based on the conversation I had with Mr. Yee, who had acknowledged that Gore might be an acceptable representative. Now it appeared that he was not seen as a viable representative by the North Korean government because he was viewed as an extension of Current TV.

"Sir, I am the one who requested former Vice President Gore to come here. I believed he would be a great envoy, not because he is the chairman of Current TV, but because he is one of the most recognized political figures in the world. It's my fault. I did not know he would be unacceptable. If he is not the right person, just tell me who is, and I will try my best to make something happen. Let me call my family, and I will do whatever I can to get you what you want."

"Your family!" the prosecutor exclaimed. "All they are doing is complaining about your health and claiming that you must be released on humanitarian grounds. You had an ulcer before you came here. We did not give that to you!" He got up from his seat.

"Time is running out," he grumbled and headed out of the room followed by the others.

The prosecutor's words made me very anxious, and I feared that once the issues with my appendicitis were resolved, I'd be sent to prison. When the guard gave me that day's dosage of antibiotic medication, I pretended to swallow the pill but rushed into the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet. I hoped my appendix might actually burst, so that I would be taken to the hospital for surgery rather than being sent to a labor camp.

Later that evening, the older man from the prosecutor's office returned, accompanied by Mr. Baek. I was glad the prosecutor wasn't with them. The man asked me what I might say to my family if I was allowed to call them.

"Sir, tell me what needs to be done, and I will do my best to make it happen," I pleaded.

I was tired of trying to guess what the authorities were after. I knew I was being used to convey messages to the U.S. government via my sister, but no one was giving me any concrete information.

"I can't tell you what to do," he replied. "That would be a violation of your human rights!"

I refrained from laughing at this absurd statement. I could tell he wasn't trying to be humorous.

"Listen," he continued. "I work for the prosecution. It is my job to send you to prison. But I am also a father, and I sympathize with you. I am not speaking to you on behalf of the North Korean government. I am simply giving you some fatherly advice."

I didn't believe him. I knew that he, like Mr. Yee before him, had been sent to prep me for my next phone call with my sister. Lisa and I had become a channel through which the North Korean government was communicating with the United States. It was essential that I send the right message. But rather than telling me directly what they wanted in exchange for our release, the North Koreans preferred an indirect method. It seemed they didn't want it to appear that they had been feeding me instructions or making demands. In their eyes, we had committed a grave crime, and it was up to our government to make an apology and present a worthy envoy to mend the situation.

The older man said he believed an acceptable emissary must be someone who resonated with the Korean people: "The Korean people know about your crime. In order for them to forgive you, the envoy must be someone they recognize who can apologize on your behalf."

It was an interesting statement, given North Korea's totalitarian state and the ma.s.s propaganda machine that has brainwashed its citizens for the past six decades. Now they wanted a high-profile envoy to add to their propaganda.

"What about Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger?" I suggested.

I knew Kim Jong Il was a big movie buff, and I hoped he was a fan of The Terminator. The Terminator. I also recalled a letter Iain had sent that included a public statement from Governor Schwarzenegger expressing his concern after the results of the trial. As a California native, I thought it might be possible to get the governor of my home state to make the trip. The man discounted that suggestion immediately. I also recalled a letter Iain had sent that included a public statement from Governor Schwarzenegger expressing his concern after the results of the trial. As a California native, I thought it might be possible to get the governor of my home state to make the trip. The man discounted that suggestion immediately.

Still upset that Al Gore had been rejected as an option, I tried to convince the man that the former vice president was still the best candidate. "He's a n.o.bel Peace Prize holder," I said.

"What if you just cut off the 'vice' and go for 'president'?" he replied with a smirk. I was speechless. Was he really suggesting that President Obama was the only person who could secure our release?

"Sir, if you think President Obama is going to come here on our behalf, you might as well send me to prison right now," I responded, feeling defeated.

"I'm not suggesting the current president, but what about past presidents?" he replied.

I perked up instantly, and my mind began going through various options. I ruled out the two Bush presidents, thinking it would be more difficult to get approval from the current administration for their involvement. That left former Presidents Carter and Clinton.

"What about Carter or Clinton?" I suggested.

"Carter or Clinton," he said, mulling over the suggestions. "Those sound like good options."

I couldn't believe we were discussing men of such stature, but I was even more disheartened by how difficult the challenge might be to get either one to make the trip.

The older man got up to leave and told me he'd be back the next day. Mr. Baek followed him out, but returned shortly after and said he'd received permission to talk to me for a few minutes longer. He apologized for never getting a chance to say good-bye and asked how I was doing. I told him I'd been ill, and that I missed the old guards. I explained that I hadn't received any letters since his departure.

"No letters!" he said, sounding surprised. He told me he'd ask about the letters on my behalf.

"Oh, and happy belated anniversary!" he said, grinning.

I was touched that he had remembered. From all of Iain's letters mentioning our upcoming anniversary, I knew Mr. Baek was aware of our June 26 wedding date.

"Thank you!" I replied. "It's so kind that you remembered."

"Did they give you anything special for dinner that night? I told the woman in charge that it was your anniversary and to fix you a special meal."

I thought back on the meals I'd been given since the trial. I recalled one dinner that was different from what was normally served. It was a dark, pungent soup. I couldn't place what kind of meat was in the soup. The gamey flavor was too strong for my liking. I'd commented on its rich taste to my guard. "It's a special kind of soup," she'd replied. "Do you like it?"

Not wanting to seem disrespectful, I'd told her it was very good, while I concentrated on swallowing the tender bits of meat. I hoped it wasn't the Korean delicacy "sweet meat," better known as dog soup.

Later that evening, after Mr. Baek left, the guarantor brought me a batch of letters. They were the first I'd received since the end of the trial. I sifted through them, trying to find any sign of movement or news. I immediately went for the ones from Lisa and Iain and scanned through them for any information.

I gathered from reading the letters that very little progress was being made. In a note from Lisa, she explained how various nongovernmental organizations, such as the International Red Cross, were concerned about our health. She also wrote that my doctor in the United States, Dr. Basil, had requested through North Korea's Permanent Mission to the UN that he be granted a visit to see Euna and me. Lisa also sought to convey messages to the North Korean authorities. She wrote: ...Every day that goes by saddens me to no end. I was truly hoping that this could be a unique opportunity for our two countries to have some kind of meaningful exchange. I am still hoping that will be the case. I just hope it happens soon. It has been too long and your families miss you so much, sweetheart.

In a letter that was handwritten from Iain and then scanned, he wrote: Dearest Laura,Things are moving very slowly at the moment. I don't know why that is. It is very frustrating, particularly for you and Euna. I wish there was something to do to speed things up. In the meantime we are pus.h.i.+ng for a family and doctor visit.I cannot believe another week has almost gone by. Another week without you. I am sorry, sweetheart. But don't worry we will keep on. I am thinking about you right now. I imagine your hair longer, being skinnier (from worry), but still strong and bright. Writing to you every day is the most important activity of my life at the moment.Thinking of you every minute of the day.

Iain I could feel the anguish in their words and blamed myself for their pain. I was upset that weeks had gone by since the trial, and still things seemed to be in a state of limbo. But it wasn't the lack of progress that worried me the most. It was a news item Iain had included in his letter dated July 4 that filled me with unease. Sandwiched between a story from the Economist Economist about the high court in Delhi ruling that consensual gay s.e.x in India was not a crime and an excerpt about China delaying a mandate that all new computers be equipped with Internet-filtering software was one sentence about North Korea: "North Korea test-fired more short-range missiles, ratcheting up tensions in the region and defying recently tightened UN sanctions." about the high court in Delhi ruling that consensual gay s.e.x in India was not a crime and an excerpt about China delaying a mandate that all new computers be equipped with Internet-filtering software was one sentence about North Korea: "North Korea test-fired more short-range missiles, ratcheting up tensions in the region and defying recently tightened UN sanctions."

In the three months I'd been held captive, North Korea had conducted a satellite launch and a nuclear test, and was now firing off missiles. There was no telling what they might do next, including sending two American journalists to a labor camp.

I spent that evening obsessing over what I needed to say in my next call to Lisa. I thought back to the jokes Mr. Yee had made about me becoming more and more like a North Korean. In a sense, he was right. I wanted to get into the minds of the North Korean leaders.h.i.+p so I could better understand how my government might best respond.

In addition to the mammoth request for an envoy, I hoped Lisa might be able to appeal to Secretary of State Clinton or President Obama to issue some sort of apology for our actions. I knew from the letters that various U.S. politicians had made statements after our sentencing. Some called for our release on humanitarian grounds and said the North Koreans should let us go without delay. But none had actually apologized for our actions. I could see that the North Korean authorities felt insulted by this perceived lack of respect.

I also planned on telling Lisa to cut back on the requests for medical visitations and to stop commenting on my poor health. The conversation I'd had with the prosecutor told me that the regime felt slighted by the accusations that my condition had worsened in captivity and that they hadn't been treating me well.

Throughout the night, I rehea.r.s.ed in my head what I wanted to say on the call. I figured I would be given roughly ten to fifteen minutes, and I knew that each second was precious. The next day, the man from the prosecutor's office came to escort me back to the Yanggakdo Hotel.

Before making the call, the man sat me down and gave me these instructions: "You must tell your sister that this is a life-or-death situation. She needs to focus all her energy on getting you out of here. Your life is in her hands."

"Sir, with all due respect, I will not tell my sister that. I don't need to put any more pressure on her than what she is already under. I don't know if Carter or Clinton will agree to come here, but Lisa will spend the rest of her life working to get me home. That I know."

LISA.

ON J JULY 7, L 7, LAURA called again. Earlier that night I had spoken with Robert Hong, who had just come out of North Korea after his three-day trip. called again. Earlier that night I had spoken with Robert Hong, who had just come out of North Korea after his three-day trip.

"I don't have good news, Lisa," he said. "They said that your family has hostile intentions against their country, and they have made a decision that this situation has to be dealt with politically. There is nothing I can do about it."

Then in a grave voice he said, "I was told that the girls are ill, and their health is rapidly deteriorating."

"Oh my G.o.d, Robert!" I screamed. "What does that mean?"

"That your government better act soon," he solemnly replied.

When I hung up the phone, I was near hysterics. Paul came to comfort me, and I told him what Robert had just said about the girls' health.

"Babe," he said, "they're probably saying that to delay sending them to a labor camp. As long as they are ill, I don't think they'll send them away."