Captive

by Catherine Oxenberg

  I forwarded the letter to Anne Champion, who laughed when she read it, dismissing it as ludicrous and baseless.

  “No US lawyer would have ever sent this,” she said. We deduced that they must have exhausted all efforts trying to find anyone in the States who’d passed the bar exam to send a letter like this, before resorting to a corrupt Mexican lawyer and attorney general to do their flying monkey work.

  I then forwarded the letter to India, hoping it would have an effect:

  Darling India,

  Are you aware that Nxivm has sent me this letter?

  It is a little concerning bc it says that I am criminally involved in an extortion case against Nxivm Mexico that goes back to 2009. This is strange for a humanitarian, ethics-based company.

  In case you would like to read the letter, there is an English translation below. I guess no more trips to Mexico unless I want to vacation in jail!

  Too bad bc i loved spending time with you in Tulum.

  And if you would like to know more or you have more information about this, call me.

  I love you

  Mom

  I didn’t receive a reply. I was still getting radio silence penance.

  The next day, Frank Parlato called to say that Clare Bronfman had gone to the assistant US district attorney in New York State’s Western District, Elizabeth Moellering, and accused him of stalking her and victimizing her and all Nxivm members.

  It was an accusation we both found especially comical, since the Nxivm mission statement (which I’d heard read aloud at least fifty times) stated clearly, “There are no ultimate victims.” And as I’d learned in Mexico, they believed that the so-called victim was the abuser—an underhanded conditioning that made it difficult for defectors to admit later on that they were, indeed, victims.

  Frank hadn’t anticipated that Clare would play the victim card, and it caught him off guard. She was using it to demand that the judge throw him in jail indefinitely until his trial, which had no set date, and shut down the FrankReport for bogus reasons.

  He was due in court a few days later, he said.

  There was no way we could afford to lose Frank and his blog; his voice was the only one in the media still brave enough (pending the People and the New York Times stories) to speak the truth about Raniere and his cronies. Parlato’s blogs had indisputably convinced many Espians to defect and saved numerous women the horror of being branded with Keith’s and Allison’s initials.

  If we lost People and the New York Times and Frank was silenced, too, we were screwed.

  Parlato asked if I’d be willing to write a letter to the judge, appealing to him to refrain from gagging the FrankReport and explaining why it was valuable. And while I was at it, he added, I should demand that the judge open a criminal investigation into Nxivm!

  I got on it, writing an impassioned missive about how the cult’s practices rose “to a level that is more than just extortion. It has now become sex trafficking.

  “Some people such as my daughter will argue that this is all voluntary, that there is no crime . . . that is not accurate because every step of the way there were inducements that were fraudulent, involving consistent undue influence and persuasive control without her informed consent. These impressionable young women have been defrauded every step of the way, and with each successive step, it becomes harder and harder to escape.”

  After I finished, I initiated a full-scale offensive to rally hundreds of other defectors to write letters as well to the same judge.

  “Some of you may have your issues with the FrankReport,” I wrote to them. “It was horrendous for me to see my daughter proclaimed as a branded sex slave on the blog,” I admitted. “But our resources as far as spearheading a criminal investigation are limited right now, and this is our first—and maybe only—opportunity to access government officials with our words! Our letters could be a tipping point to get their attention!”

  Dozens of current and longtime defectors, family members, other victims, and even one of Keith’s underage rape victims wrote powerful testimonies. As I read through them, I was moved by their tragic stories of families torn asunder and lives left in ruins. The cult’s wake of destruction spanned decades.

  The same day as Frank’s call, Anne emailed a long list of legal strategies on how to “extract” India out of the cult, and we got on the phone to discuss them. At the top of the list was the shocking suggestion to prove India mentally incapacitated to make her own decisions.

  “Hold it right there,” I said to Anne. “I can’t . . . I can’t even . . .”

  I never thought I’d reach the point where one of my last options to save India included taking away her rights as an adult. Even though an aggressive move like that would make getting her out easier and quicker, I couldn’t imagine anything more devastating for a parent to do to her grown child. She and our family would never recover.

  “That’s a bridge I’m not willing to cross,” I said firmly. Especially after glancing at the part about how she’d be “involuntarily committed to a mental institution for a period of time.” I’d been through that before, when I had to admit my father to a psychiatric hospital against his will. It was one of the most traumatic moments in our relationship.

  Just . . . no. Besides, India was not crazy—she was brainwashed.

  To spur a criminal investigation, Anne said, I’d need to gather as much proof of criminal activity as I could and put together what’s called an evidence packet. Her firm charged a $50,000 fee for that task, but I could do it more cost effectively by using a company like Kroll International—a private investigation and security company—which would do the scouring and digging for me.

  The other alternative, Anne said, was to wait until the New York Times article came out, and the story would cause such an uproar that the government would be pressured to take action immediately. And as far as the civil class action suit, “you’ll have lawyers lining up around the block to represent you pro bono.”

  I emailed Barry Meier:

  Dear Barry,

  I hope all is well on your end.

  Waiting for this article is like watching a pot boil! I’m trying to be patient (failing) but Sept has come and gone. And, of course, I keep indulging in catastrophic thinking, jumping to the worst case scenario—that the story may never run and that India may slip between my fingers and escape to Fiji in the clutches of a madman. Exacerbating my fears was recent news that she is dangerously thin.

  If you have the chance, please let me know when you get word about the status—either way.

  Warmly,

  Catherine

  Four days later, on October 17, merciful fate intervened.

  Mark, Bonnie, me, and the rest of our core team on the West Coast set our phone volumes to high as we waited on pins and needles at five in the morning to hear the outcome of Frank’s court appearance that morning in Buffalo.

  Would he be taken away in shackles? Would we lose the FrankReport?

  The first good news of the day came at 5:10 a.m. PST with Frank’s relieved voice on my phone.

  The hearing had lasted only ten minutes, he said. Assistant DA Moellering was there as well as another assistant DA from the Western District, Clare’s lawyer, three FBI agents, and a criminal agent from the Internal Revenue Service.

  “They made a motion before the judge to revoke my release and remand me into custody until trial,” said Frank. “That means, keep me in jail.”

  They presented his blog as evidence, saying it was a threat and danger to the victims—Clare and all members of ESP. They also accused Frank of witness intimidation and claimed that the blog showed that Frank had been snooping around Clifton Park, stalking Clare.

  The judge looked dubious and asked Frank, “Were you in Clifton Park?”

  No, he answered.

  “Your Honor,” the prosecutor piped up, “we want to protect the victims from Mr. Parlato.”

  “What evidence do you have that anyone is a victim?” th
e judge asked.

  “We don’t have any,” Moellering admitted.

  “There is no basis for this,” said the judge. “Overruled! Mr. Parlato, I will take your word for it. Deny the motion.” He banged the gavel, and Frank rushed outside to call and give us the good news.

  “I just got out of the courtroom,” Frank said, adding, “I don’t think Moellering is in Bronfman’s pocket; I think she was just misled. She looked like she was going through the motions and that Clare was putting the pressure on her.”

  Frank’s win was a victory for us all at a time when we really, really needed some good news.

  And then came more.

  —

  THE ME TOO movement had begun quietly two days earlier but ignited overnight. By that afternoon, it had spread across the internet—and the world—like a California wildfire.

  I watched in awe after I hung up with Frank as, one by one, hundreds of thousands of women stood up and found their voices—speaking out for the first time about horrendous abuse, past and present. They were shouting out loud about the same crimes I was; the misuse of power, manipulation, and the silencing of victims—though the cult took those horrors a step further and brainwashed women to turn on one another, their own sisters.

  The tidal wave of reckoning created an energy, a zeitgeist, and put a wind in the sails of our story to take it airborne.

  The editors at the New York Times felt it, too.

  Then, Frank tipped off Barry that the Albany Times Union was about to break their own feature about DOS.

  Five minutes later, Barry called to say our story was going online that night, and when I hung up the phone, my hands were shaking.

  I saw it before I went to bed, and I was in such shock that it had finally happened that I could barely sleep. Everything I’d been gearing up for over the past few months culminated in this moment when the story would hit, and I was primed with every sinew of my body to launch an attack first thing in the morning. I wanted Anne to brandish the article in the faces of government officials and tell them “Wake up! Do your job!”

  But I was also anxious and worried about India. What will she think? Will she respond? Will she hate me?

  My internal struggle was constant. I could tap into the pain and betrayal I knew India would feel once she saw the story. If I let this cult take her life away, that would be the ultimate betrayal.

  What I was doing was dreadfully hard for both of us, but to stand by and do nothing was worse.

  The next morning, my phone buzzed nonstop, the first call coming from Bonnie and Mark.

  “Did you see it? Oh my God, Catherine. The story is on the front page—above the fold!”

  I jumped out of bed, picked up as many copies as I could from the nearest grocery store, and met them at Bill’s house—along with Karim and the crew—so we could all read the story together for the cameras.

  Photos of India at varying ages hung on the walls around us as Bonnie slowly unfolded the newspaper on Bill’s living room coffee table. The first thing we all saw was Sarah’s pelvis and that red, angry brand burned into her skin.

  Reading the piece in print made the horror even more concrete. In fact, as I read Barry’s story I discovered new horrors I hadn’t known before.

  For the first time, I read about Dr. Brandon Porter’s unauthorized experiments at something called the Ethical Science Foundation, fronted by Clare Bronfman, in which the internist hooked women up to electroencephalogram (EEG) machines to measure brain wave activity and forced them to watch snuff films of women being decapitated and dismembered by machetes; an African American male being savagely kicked by a Nazi; a man forced to eat part of his own brain matter; and a vicious gang rape. I would later find out that at least one hundred subjects were exposed to these “fright studies.”

  Oh God, what incomprehensible depravity. Has India been subjected to this? The thought of it nearly sent me over the edge. It reminded me of terrorist training: the women watching these videos were being desensitized, radicalized, and weaponized to tolerate violence against other women—and against themselves. No wonder they didn’t flinch at the idea of branding. The extreme pain of branding, too, causes severe dissociation—which, in turn, makes the women more suggestible and easier to mind control. (DOS slaves are told the ritual is to experience the body separate from pain as a way to build character: “You are more than your body,” the masters tell their slaves.)

  “I know where some of those images come from,” Mark said, mortified. “When I was filming the documentary about the kidnapping and ransom epidemic in Mexico, I was shown film clips from cartel executions. I told Keith about them, and he asked me to send them to him. He must have given them to Brandon.” Mark shook his head.

  “This is an act of torture,” he said. “If Keith is another Hitler, then Brandon is stepping in as his Dr. Mengele. Dr. Death.”

  Following the publication of the Times story, ESP was quick to put up a word salad statement on its website, ostensibly writing off the newspaper as fake news: that dismissive label currently favored by extremists. That phrase wasn’t used in the statement, but through the cult grapevine, I heard that’s what they were saying.

  They might as well have called Barry and his colleagues Lügenpresse: the Nazi term for “lying press.”

  “This story might be a criminal product of criminal minds who, in the end, are also hurting the victims of the story,” said the cult’s official statement, which also noted, “We will explore any and all legal remedies to correct these lies.”

  Great. I could only imagine what remedies they had in store for me.

  As the day progressed, my phone continued to buzz like one long, uninterrupted bzzzzzzzzzz.

  I got a call from my sister Ashley, who’d read the story and apologized for not reaching out earlier.

  “Honestly, Catherine, I didn’t take what I’d read seriously. I thought: India? Impossible! She’s the last person in the world I would ever imagine getting involved in a cult. She was always so level-headed!”

  But the certain relief I’d expected to feel with the story’s publication never came. I knew I’d now crossed the line of no return in so many ways, most of all with India. I’d reached the ring of fire. And now I had to face the grim repercussions of that. Part of me half expected, and certainly hoped, that one of the calls today would be from my daughter and that, after reading the article, she’d realize the truth about Keith and his ilk and say, “Mom, come and get me. I want to come home.”

  But no such call came.

  That night, I hopped the red-eye and landed the next morning in Washington, DC.

  I was there to attend a conference on the barbaric practice of female genital mutilation and meet the keynote speaker, Dr. Pierre Foldès, a French Hungarian doctor who’d pioneered the clitoral restoration surgery that repaired the damage caused by female genital mutilation.

  I’d been eager to track him down and invite him to join the advisory board for my foundation, and after we had dinner together in DC, he graciously accepted. I had planned to stay in the city another day or so and take part in more conference activities, including an anti-FGM march, but once again my phone was buzzing nonstop.

  Apparently, the New York Times had published an explosive follow-up the day after breaking our story, announcing that Governor Andrew Cuomo of New York was opening an investigation with the Health Department to look into the activities of the branding doctor, Danielle Roberts, and the physician conducting those “fright studies,” Brandon Porter, who was named in the story.

  I could barely believe it. Only twenty-four hours after our story hit the stands, and already the reaction was so swift and immediate. It was what we’d been hoping and praying for.

  Barry had skillfully skewed the article specifically to spur authorities to open an investigation. He pointed out the repeated lapses by law enforcement every time complaints had been issued and yet victims were turned away by various government agencies.

  I
was able to indulge in a few hours of relief and gratitude that night. Not only would our story have legs and not be leaving the news cycle anytime soon, but it was already opening doors with law enforcement. The relief lasted until I saw India’s early morning Facebook post in support of the cult. She’d shared ESP’s official statement in a public post that anyone could see and comment on, and added one of her own:

  For anyone who’s read the recent articles in the New York Times, this may help answer some questions and alleviate any confusion. Thank you for your care and concern; it’s been an incredibly sad situation and I’ve been anticipating this article.

  I’m absolutely fine, great actually. I would never put myself or the people I love into any danger.

  These are my friends and colleagues. I’ve never seen anything but good come out of this work.

  Her page went nuts after that. Hundreds of concerned Facebookers reached out to India and commented on her public post with a mixture of concern and, sometimes, humor:

  This is a cult and you are brainwashed.

  I pray that you are saved before it’s too late.

  You are in denial, you are defending that man and his craziness, don’t worry about him. Worry about you cause you are #1 not him.

  Keith is about power, control, sex, money, and evil!!!! Pure Evil!!!

  Well the first problem is you have to move to Albany.

  Get out before you die!! Please listen to your mother . . . the only one that really cares about you!!!!!!

  India, no one who truly cares about you would want to brand you like cattle. India run don’t walk to the nearest door and run to the people who love you. Truly love you.

  I think you’re beautiful and too good to be anyone’s puppet.

  If I couldn’t get through to her, maybe a stranger could. Maybe, out of the litany of voices, one would resonate and pierce that protective cult armor.

  Of the hundreds of comments, only one or two were trolls saying hurtful, cruel things that were painful to read. Another few were cult members trying to start a #ProudlyESP hashtag that didn’t pick up any traction and fizzled out fast.