Lucky for Bonnie, I thought.
“He also tried to get me on an eight-hundred-calorie-a-day diet, and I basically said, fuck that. After that, there were no more walks at three a.m. Seems like he lost interest in me.”
Even before Bonnie told him about DOS, Mark could see that something was off with some of the women around Keith. Several weeks earlier, in Albany, he’d confronted Keith about it.
“Whatever you’re doing with these girls that’s making them look like zombies and get so thin,” he told Keith, “it’s going to blow up in your face.”
“I don’t think so,” Keith replied smugly. “Maybe other things, yes, but not that.”
Mark had one more piece of important information from Sarah that might involve India.
“Sarah was supposed to fly back to Albany the first week of June to take part in a branding ceremony. But she broke down and said she couldn’t do it; that the thought of subjecting others to the torture she’d endured was unbearable. She wants to get out and she needs help.
“I told her we’d help her, and the other girls,” Mark said, looking at me.
I nodded.
“Of course we will,” I answered. Then I realized with horror that India might indeed be involved with this upcoming branding. We’d booked her birthday trip a week ahead of time because she had important appointments in Albany that first week of June when her actual birthday was, she’d said.
Greg stood up and took the floor.
“Your job from now on, all of you,” he said, “is to disrupt these people as much as you can. What you’re describing here are crimes, for fuck’s sake. Call the FBI! They can’t just go around branding women on their crotches like that! It’s not legal! Call the cops. You guys should be filming this, and you should go to the press! Expose these assholes! This is a criminal enterprise!” he said, pounding his hand on the tabletop.
“How do you know?” Mark asked. “How can you be sure of that?”
“It’s obvious! Let me ask you a question, Bonnie: Did you ever get paid for all the work you did?”
“No. And I was on call twenty-four/seven, I worked nonstop.”
“That’s labor violations right there. Contact the Department of Labor, for starters. File a complaint! Your strategy from now on is to create as much disturbance as possible. Make it impossible for them to continue doing what they are doing. From the sound of it, these people are breaking the law all over the place. Don’t stop until they are behind bars. You have to stop this!”
Bonnie had a thought. “Is it legal that he was using his girlfriend Pam’s credit card after she died?”
“Using a dead person’s Amex?” Greg asked. “That’s a felony!”
“I had a feeling there was fishy business going on,” said Juliana, putting her arm around her son, “but what could I do? Mark was never going to hear it from his mum—and where my boy went, I followed.”
Greg listed all the potential crimes he thought ESP perpetrated just as standard operating procedure in Keith’s totalitarian regime. Bonnie’s and Mark’s eyes popped out of their heads. They’d been living in Keith-land for so long and were so conditioned to normalize everything that they couldn’t see all these crimes being committed. They also had no idea they’d been victims themselves—as I’d learned in Mexico, they’d been conditioned to think victims didn’t exist.
“It’s emotional terrorism, what Keith does,” I said.
Greg scribbled down a name and number on a piece of paper and handed it to Mark.
“This is my contact at the FBI. Call him. Tell him everything you know. Ask for immunity for India—she’s the victim here.”
For the first time in two hours, Bonnie and Mark smiled.
Greg had given them—and me—hope that we were not powerless against the mighty cult intimidation machine and that we, in fact, had the upper hand. Mark and Bonnie talked about the shame they felt, that they’d been lured in—and for so long—by someone like Keith.
“No one signs up for a cult,” Greg said. “No one knows it’s a cult going in.”
“I’m worried Keith will escape to Fiji,” Mark said. “That’s always been the official escape plan.”
“Don’t worry,” Greg said, smiling. “You can get extradited from Fiji. No one’s going to protect this creep from sex trafficking.”
“Sex trafficking?” Mark asked.
“From what you’ve all described, I can almost guarantee you there’s human trafficking going on,” said Greg. “I can sniff it on Keith from miles away.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Any time girls are transported across state lines—and, in this case, international borders—for the purposes of branding and/or sex, that’s illegal.”
We had our work cut out for us over the next two weeks: a birthday party, a branding ceremony, and a brainwashing intervention.
The way Greg talked, we were like the new Mod Squad about to infiltrate the criminal element in Albany, New York, by way of Malibu.
“All you guys together in this room is Keith’s worst nightmare,” Greg said, pointing at each of us one by one:
“The number two, the accountant, the mom, and the puddle licker. He won’t know what hit him.”
9
* * *
AN INTERVENTION PARTY
The days leading up to the intervention were nerve-racking.
Everybody who knew about it felt the pressure of the impending, pivotal moment to come. Even India, who didn’t know about it, was plagued with crisis after crisis as we counted down the days before her arrival.
She texted from Albany asking me to set up a doctor’s appointment for her for when she was in town so that she could get blood work done.
India: I haven’t had a period in over a year. Do you think I need to go?
Me: Yes I do. I’ll make an appt.
India: Mom could u also tell the doctor that i’m having a lot of hair loss.
On a different day, she texted to say she’d sprained her ankle and her car had been towed: “I feel like such a little kid right now. I’ve had a rough few days . . . I just feel like I want my mom. Haha.”
Her last text to me was reminiscent of the precult India, allowing herself to be vulnerable and reach out to her mother in a time of need. That gave me much-needed hope, since most of the plans I’d put into place for the intervention party were collapsing one by one.
Relying on family, friends, and experts, I was trying to embed the intervention into her daylong birthday party so that, by the end of the day, she’d come to the painless realization that Keith was a sick phony. Then we’d all have cake and ice cream, and the nightmare would be over.
With that plan in mind, I’d arranged for Greg to attend so that he could ever so casually interrogate India about the cult over canapés and plant multiple seeds of doubt in her mind—sort of an “intervention-lite.” Greg wasn’t a close friend of India’s and wouldn’t have normally been on the invite list; I thought I was being clever by saying I wanted him to come over so that he and I could discuss his sex-trafficking efforts, but it totally backfired on me.
“Mom, that’s not such a good fit: blending my birthday with a sex-trafficking theme!”
Bonnie and Mark were also supposed to attend and do some unobtrusive deprogramming on her during the party, until India bumped into them on the street the day before. She promptly notified the high-ranking grand pooh-bahs of Bonnie and Mark’s whereabouts, which threw the two of them into a panic, and they canceled.
Mark had officially resigned from all his positions at Nxivm the week before—senior proctor, co-owner of the Vancouver and LA centers, founding member and high counsel of the Society of Protectors, and executive board member of ESP—and as far as we could tell, all hell broke loose at command central because of it.
He and Bonnie were in the process of moving into their new, secret “safe house” (I didn’t even know where it was) and were doing everything possible to stay invisible and under
ESP’s radar. Because Mark was so high-ranking and knew so much, he and Bonnie were at risk of being followed, threatened, sued, and intimidated in any number of ways by Espians. It didn’t occur to them that India, whom they considered a friend, would betray their location. Mark called to say that he and Bonnie wouldn’t be attending the party.
With India unaware of the turmoil happening behind the scenes, she and the girls and I happily dove in to creating the birthday feast in the kitchen. India made a frittata, nut bread, roasted veggies, eggplant, insanely good meatballs, roasted corn soup, and berries with whipped cream. I made spinach ravioli with pesto and puttanesca sauces, chicken-avocado Caesar salad, and more.
The cooking was infused with a divine quality—all of us Oxenberg women together again, laughing and playing music in the kitchen as we chopped, baked, tasted, and sang. India introduced us to one of her favorite songs, “Crazy,” by Cuban-American singer Kat Dahlia, and we danced around the kitchen to the beat.
It was a brief window of normalcy in a time that wasn’t, so the happiness was tinged with sadness for me. I wished life could be only this: enjoying time with my girls and cooking with my darling India. But I was about to risk losing these moments forever with my impending agenda, and that reality hung over me. I had no idea what to expect after I, or any of us, confronted India about the cult. Would it change things between us? I cherished that morning, in case it would be the last one we’d all have like that.
But now three people who were to talk to India about the cult were not coming, and I agonized over whether I should say anything to her by myself or, as Rachel Bernstein suggested, wait until I had more time to prepare. I had my training from Rachel, but without Greg, Bonnie, or Mark there, I felt like I was flying by the seat of my pants. As it turned out, Mark drove over anyway to drop off some fried vegan pies for dessert and to confront India face-to-face.
“You endangered us!” he said to her out on the driveway.
They began arguing loudly, and it accelerated into a shouting match on the street before Mark drove off and India retreated to the garage for thirty minutes with her two phones in her trembling hands. Once again she called the Albany grand pooh-bahs with an updated report on the defectors.
Half the people in attendance—my friends; Bill; his other daughter, Carey—knew the purpose of the party and had been instructed to perform a variation on the intervention-lite theme: tell her how much you love and miss her, be curious about what she’s doing, ask her a lot of questions (but nothing critical that would put her on the defensive), and remind her of happy times from before she joined ESP to elicit her precult self.
My friends who hadn’t seen India in a while were slightly freaked out by how zealously gung-ho she was about the cult, and so was I. She’d invited several pretty, thin, young women who I didn’t know—Emma and Ava, for example—and I wondered if they were involved. When I happened to go into my bedroom, just off the kitchen, to get something, I found India leaning onto my bed with one of the pretty partygoers I didn’t know. She was typing on her laptop, filling out an enrollment form for the girl.
I froze, and my level of alarm hit a new all-time high. It was heartbreaking enough that India was a danger to herself. But recruiting innocent friends to be punished, tortured, and branded? She’d crossed a moral line. And because she was doing it in my home, I’d become unwittingly complicit.
My stomach turned, and as I walked back to the party, I made a decision: this couldn’t wait six more months or one more month or even one more week. I had to take action now.
—
TWO DAYS LATER, after I’d wined, dined, watsu-ed, massaged, and filled India with the best chocolate we could find, I asked her to come to my bedroom for a talk.
Rachel had emphasized that the intervention had to be an elegant, subtle, and respectful process in which you challenge the cult member’s declarative statements in a loving, kind, and curious way to engage their own critical thinking.
But that nonconfrontational approach went out the window the moment I saw India recruiting that girl. The sickening image of all her party guests being held down and branded by a madman made me snap.
I needed to be forthright with her, even if it meant I’d alienate her and she’d hate me for it.
We sat on the bed, and I cleared my throat:
“Darling, I know what’s going on. You were recruiting slaves in my home. That’s not okay with me.”
India looked confused. She didn’t even flinch when I used the word “slaves.”
“What do you mean?” she asked. “I was only signing them up for V-week.”
“Angel, even if you were, it’s not okay with me that you sign anyone up for anything associated with Nxivm in my home.”
I took a deep breath: “I know all about the master-slave group you’re involved in, and the lifetime vow of obedience you’ve taken. I know about the starvation diet Keith put you on, and about the damaging collateral you give—and if you’ve given any about me, and that’s what’s keeping you there, I don’t care about it.
“I know that Keith’s having sex with all the women, and that you’ve drained your bank accounts.
“And . . . I know about the branding.”
I couldn’t bring myself to ask if she’d been branded, I just couldn’t. But I was somehow able to ask about Keith.
“India, did you have sex with Keith? Are you having sex with him?”
“No, Mom.”
I couldn’t determine if she was telling me the truth or not. I continued:
“I have a moral obligation now to reach out to every person at your party and warn them what this is really about. I am going to have to expose you and the cult for what it is. I’m sorry, darling, but I can’t let this go on any longer.”
India looked hurt.
“Please don’t do that, Mom. It will just make things worse for me.”
I didn’t realize then that if she didn’t recruit her personal quota of slaves, she’d be severely punished. I kept going.
“Darling, you’re brainwashed.”
“I’m not brainwashed.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No! I’m not.”
Surprisingly, we never raised our voices throughout the entire conversation.
“I don’t believe in brainwashing, Mom.”
“Well, don’t take my word for it. Speak to a specialist. Will you?”
She shook her head. There went my idea to take her to Rachel, out the door.
“You’re in a cult, India.”
“No, I’m not. You may think that I am. But I’m not.”
Even though every word we said to each other was saturated with love and tenderness, we were going in circles, getting nowhere. As cult expert Rick Alan Ross would tell me soon after, I’d hit a brick wall, and there was no going through it or getting around it.
India looked sad, as if I were falsely accusing her of some heinous crime, and she couldn’t understand why I was acting in this crazy way or why I’d want to hurt her.
“Darling, I’m doing this only because I love you, and I’m concerned for your safety.”
My beautiful, gentle daughter looked at me with sympathy, sorry for my distress.
“I don’t understand what you find so upsetting, Mom,” she said.
We volleyed back and forth like this for an hour, until we both grew too tired and frustrated to talk anymore and went to bed, shaken up. I could only imagine how alone India must have felt that night, not understanding why her true champion, her mother, seemed so against her. Instead of sleeping in bed with one of her sisters—which is what she’d normally do—she curled up on the couch outside my bedroom door like a little kitten. A memory came to mind, one from when she was just four. The presidential election of 1996 was approaching and she asked me whom I planned to vote for.
“I haven’t decided yet, Sweet Pea,” I said.
“Mommy,” she said, “vote for the one who freed the slaves!”
I
went to bed with a glimmer of hope: maybe she hadn’t been branded yet, since she didn’t say she had been. And maybe because of our talk, she wouldn’t get on the plane to Albany the next day. The alternatives kept me tossing and turning all night.
The next morning, before taking India to the doctor, I began frantically emailing and texting all the girls at the party and their mothers, if I knew them, to warn them.
Dear———,
I hope all is well with you. I wanted to reach out to you to warn you about my beloved daughter India’s involvement in a cult. I was concerned that she might try to enroll your daughter. I know that the two of them are close, and I would not want to jeopardize that friendship. It breaks my heart to have to intervene, but I feel that it is my moral responsibility as a mother.
I am extremely concerned for her health and well-being.
If you would like more information, please feel free to reach out to me. And if you feel your daughter could be at risk, I can send you documentation of what the girls are actually being recruited for.
Warmly,
Catherine Oxenberg
With Bonnie and Mark, I went over a list of who had been at the party, and we tried to figure out if any of the girls were already Nxivm members. One who fit the profile was Ava, a petite, slender actress with pixie features and a sweet disposition, much like India.
Hi Ava,
this is Catherine India’s mom. I’m asking u to please not fly to Albany this week. U are participating in illegal activities that u may not know about. The authorities are involved, and u would be at risk of being arrested—if u need more info please feel free to reach out to me and have your mom reach out to me as well. This is a dangerous cult.
An hour later, as we drove along the ocean’s edge to India’s doctor appointment, I couldn’t face not knowing any longer.
It was a question I never imagined I would ask my daughter; a question no mother should ever have to ask. But I had no choice. Her life was in danger, and I needed to know.
“India . . . have you been branded?”
I clutched the steering wheel as I awaited her answer.
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