Showing posts with label Socialist Patients Collective. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Socialist Patients Collective. Show all posts

Wednesday, April 5, 2023

False Narrative 4: The Defendant Speaks (sort of)

 Kristina Berster might be technically innocent until proven guilty, but in the public’s opinion she was a terrorist until proven otherwise. The Vermont trial of an alleged “terrorist” revealed the danger of guilt by association and how disinformation creates a false narrative. 



By Greg Guma


Chapter Four


The Defendant Speaks (sort of)


The courtroom was crowded with supporters, reporters, gadflies and government observers when Kristina took the witness stand on a Tuesday in October. After remaining silent for three months, the alleged “terrorist” suspect was about to present her defense.
           She had attempted to cross the border from Canada, she explained, due to a mixture of fear and hope. She’d been seeking refuge from a “counter-terrorist” fever in her homeland. “I wanted to start a new life,” she said, “to live openly once again, to have a legal existence. I was no longer able to go on with life underground.”
           As a student at the University of Heidelberg almost a decade earlier she had been part of the anti-war movement and joined an alternative therapy project. The purpose of the Socialist Patients Collective was to “find out the reasons why people feel lonely, isolated and depressed and the circumstances which caused these problems,” she explained. But in June 1971, as a political crackdown on dissent swept West Germany, members of the group were accused of criminal association, based on the testimony of a police informer who later recanted
.

Kristina spent six months in detention, including three months in solitary confinement. In 1972, she was finally released. But a year later she faced another trial. At this point she went underground and left the country. The next years were spent in Holland, North Africa, the Middle East, and France. But after German industrialist Hans Martin Schleyer, a former SS official by the way, was killed after his kidnapping she realized that it wasn’t safe for her in Europe either.

In 1978, after the death of former Prime Minister Aldo Moro in Italy, leaving the continent felt like a matter of survival. Stern magazine, Germany’s version of Life, had printed the pictures of 34 “most wanted terrorist suspects.” Kristina made the list.

“Everyone arrested as an alleged terrorist is detained for between two and three years in complete isolation,” she told the court. Before she could say more, the prosecution objected. The testimony was stricken, and the judge banned further statements on the political aspects of the case.

William Gray’s cross examination had a different objective. By using phone logs, asking why she left Europe, and about the origins of her fake passport, he was probing for prior contact with Ray, the New York City boutique owner who had helped her reach the border. Gray’s questions implied the possibility of a conspiracy; in other words, the FBI’s scenario. This “simple border case” was really a vehicle to publicize a so-called plot linking foreign terrorists and US activists. Conviction on a minor border violation would not be enough.

During her second day on the stand Kristina was asked about her help getting into the US. The instructions had come from Chilean refugees living in Paris. This intrigued Gray. But he was even more eager to know where she had lived during her underground years, a line of inquiry she and her lawyers wanted to avoid. She had stayed in Libya and South Yemen, Middle East countries out of favor with the US, and her answers might prejudice the jury. But taking the Fifth would undermine her credibility.

The judge urged the lawyers to strike a deal. Their agreement was that the countries be referred to as A and B. Berster would simply admit that she felt safe during the time she spent there.

On re-direct Bill Kunstler probed her decision to leave France — not just where and who, but why. The answer was blocked. Neither Gray nor the judge wanted testimony about her fear of persecution. 

“Mr. Gray opened that door,” snapped Kunstler. 

“No, he hasn’t,” the judge shot back. They were close to the confrontation that had looked inevitable since the opening moments.

A day earlier, Kunstler had issued a warning when Coffrin let Gray ask about her underground years. “All right, Judge. You are opening it,” Kunstler said.

“I am not controlling this,” the judge replied. It was a strange admission.

“All right, as long as you are on notice that now we are going full blast,” countered Kunstler. To which the judge replied hotly, “You may not be allowed to go full blast.” That was also a warning.

Kunstler shifted to another line of questioning. Why didn’t Kristina think it was wrong to enter the country secretly? It was a direct extension of questions Gray had already asked. He objected anyway.

Kunstler prowled the chamber, flashing angry glances at the prosecutor and the judge. Circling the prosecution table he returned to the podium and pounded on his notes. “I want to get to her state of mind, and why she thought she was not wrong.”

Coffrin wouldn’t budge: No testimony on West Germany would be admitted. Kunstler was boiling mad. Shouting, he charged that the judge had ruled consistently against the defense. If the jury had been watching, the outburst might have resulted in a contempt citation. But they had already been taken out.

A decade after the Chicago 8 trial, William Kunstler hadn’t lost his power to provoke. This time around, his powerful yet studied rage led to a private conference in which the judge merely reamed him out for “impugning” the integrity of the court.

By the following day, Coffrin’s attitude had softened. Kristina would be allowed to explain why she felt that her actions had not been wrong. “I had been accused, originally, unjustly of things I had not done,” she explained. “I was wanted for associating with people suspected of terrorism, and I knew that other people suspected and in jail had died under mysterious circumstances.”

Gray objected, but the testimony continued. About lying to border officials, she said, “I was afraid of being detained, checked out. If police agents found out I would be deported right away and I wouldn’t get to contact lawyers and ask for asylum.”

But why pick the US? “I spoke the language,” she said. “It had customs and culture similar to Europe. I thought the US was independent of Germany. I thought I could find understanding and support for my situation, since this country has a long tradition of accepting refugees.”

When Kristina left the witness stand the defense rested its case. There was much she hadn’t been permitted to share. Yet she had said enough to raise questions about the prosecution’s case. Specifically, her testimony poked holes in the conspiracy charge and left the impression that an essentially innocent woman had been forced to hide her identity for five years. As he saw it, US Attorney Gray felt he had to challenge both her memory and her honesty.

It worked out differently. Two of the government’s rebuttal witnesses ended up, under oath, contradicting their own statements. They’d been called to show that Kristina had unimpeded and frequent contact with a lawyer during her first 24 hours in custody. She had testified that she wasn’t permitted calls for more than a day.

Donald Peck, the stoic Border Patrol agent who had questioned her until early morning, at first testified that he had allowed Kristina to call a lawyer immediately. Cross examination revealed that his own report of the incident, filed soon after the arrest, showed a multi-hour delay. He couldn’t explain the discrepancy.

Next, James Aamodt, an Immigration agent on hand the morning after her arrest at the Swanton police headquarters, talked about Kristina’s calls to and from attorneys. She had denied the calls. Aamoldt, who had since become Case Officer for the prosecutors, said there had been three. Once again cross examination revealed a different story.

Aamodt eventually admitted that, despite what he had written in a report to the US Attorney, she had only one conversation, at most. Several other calls from lawyers had been received, but they hadn’t been allowed to speak with the prisoner.

Borderline perjury didn’t dampen the prosecution’s hunger to impeach the defendant. Nor did it lead them to admit there was some special government interest in the case. Neither the FBI nor West Germany was influencing their strategy, the lawyers still insisted. But conflicting reports had trickled out. 

Before the trial, Gray and his assistant had spent almost a week at Justice Department briefings, including two meetings with Attorney General Griffin Bell. During the case they received calls from the West German consulate, whose spokesman described the New York office as “swamped” with work on the Berster case.

German media was intrigued from the start, and sent correspondents to cover the trial’s opening days. Later Stern magazine hired two German translators from Vermont to collect as much information as possible and bring it back personally to the Hamburg office. Press outlets in West Germany continued to label Kristina a terrorist accomplice, claiming that they had obtained a photo of her in a French airport with the sister-in-law of a terrorist. 

If it existed, the airport evidence wasn’t used or even mentioned in court. It might have been a lie, or perhaps a hint that Kristina had been under surveillance even before she arrived in Canada.


Next: The Therapeutic State

False Narrative: Eight Chapters

Wednesday, March 15, 2023

False Narrative 1: The Persecution of Kristina Berster

 How the Vermont trial of an alleged “terrorist” revealed 
the danger of guilt by association, and the way 
disinformation creates a false narrative. 


Chapter One

On the Line — July 16, 1978


Kristina Berster got out of the brown Mercury and began to say her goodbyes. It wasn’t what she’d hoped for, but she thanked them anyway for bringing her this far. Mostly, she spoke to Ray, who looked pretty gloomy in the back seat.

“Are you sure about this?” he grumbled. He doubted that the idea would work. But indecision was a hopeful sign. After previous refusals, the Americans might wait for her on the other side of the border after all, and then drive her to Plattsburgh.

She would have to be shrewd. The driver didn’t know much about the real situation, only that she wanted to enter the US secretly — in other words, illegally — and needed a lift to Noyan, near the border, to check things out. Ray’s girlfriend Maria probably knew more, and she was nervous. She’d helped rent a room at the Noyan Inn. But now she wanted to move on to sightseeing. And she wasn’t at all eager to take unnecessary risks for a stranger.

Persuading Ray, appealing to his sense of chivalry, seemed like a viable strategy. It was certainly preferable to hitchhiking at night to someplace she had never seen.

Or maybe guilt would work. “The least you can do is wait on the US side,” she pleaded, and grabbed the roadmap she had been using to direct the driver, Michael, since they left Montreal. She pointed to a spot on the US side where, according to some friends back in France, there was a gas station called the Alburg Truck Stop. They could pick her up there after she made her way around the Customs station.

“It’s crazy, not a good plan,” said Ray. She had made up her mind, but he continued to discourage her. He wasn’t even sure why she was running. What had provoked such a desperate move? In the end, however, he knew it was her decision and the only humane thing was to try to make sure she made it safely.

She’d decided. No more refusals. And no more time to argue. Her Canadian visa ran out in August and there was no telling when she could get a ride this far again. Better to try now. It was as good as any other option. There was a good chance that Ray and the others would wait for her.

“Thank you for helping,” she said, giving Maria a kiss. Then the car headed back as she watched from the roadside, surrounded by trees and pastures. Her route was in the opposite direction. To her right, sometimes through the branches, she could see the setting sun. It was cloudy, interrupting an orange glimmer of the puddles in her path. She didn’t notice much, instead reviewing the choices she had made since flying from Lyon to Mirabel airport. As usual, she was preoccupied with her shortcomings and mistakes.

She knew one thing. If she couldn’t make it to Plattsburgh today her chances wouldn’t improve by returning to the Inn. The room had been a security measure at best, in case someone questioned her presence near the border. “Just a student,” she could say, “visiting wonderful Canada and staying in the countryside.” They might just believe her. But the prospect of another night at the Inn, alone, without a ride or her luggage, wasn’t appealing.

Leaving her bags back in Montreal was probably one of those mistakes. It would take weeks to get them back. They might even be lost or seized if Ray didn’t return to pick them up. On the other hand, they had been useful as collateral to get this far. When Ray balked at providing a ride to Noyan, she said, “Here, I’ll leave my clothing in Montreal to prove I’m not planning to cross today.” The small lie had worked.

She was 90 percent certain that Ray would convince the others to make the pick up in Alburg. Still, he was skeptical about the whole idea, and Maria’s presence limited her ability to persuade him. It had been different back in France, where they first met. Last year he seemed suave, independent, and eager to help. But she wasn’t ready to leave Europe. Since then Ray had turned cautious, although she still sensed his underlying generosity.

Many things had changed — friendships, the political scene, the intelligence dragnet descending over the continent. It was harder to find a helping hand, especially from someone like Ray, a boutique owner in Greenwich Village who avoided intrigue and had something to lose.

She was walking along an unmarked road. It felt like this was taking longer than necessary. On their map of Canada and Vermont, the Chileans had noted that the walk from Noyan to Alburg was no more than a few miles. But she’d been walking for an hour without a sign of the border. Maybe she was headed in the wrong direction. The last thing she needed was to get lost in the dark.

On the farmland beside the road she noticed someone, probably the owner or a worker. She waved and walked across the grass, greeting the Canadian in French. She was visiting the area, she said, and had become lost. She asked for directions back to the Inn and the location of a river to the west.

The farmer’s advice took her to the corner she had been looking for since about eight o’clock. The map called it Line Road. She assumed the name came from its location parallel to the border. But she wasn’t sure which side she was on. There was no sign of a Customs station in either direction. She decided to stay on the road. It couldn’t be far from the truckstop and the likelihood of being noticed in the dark was slim.

But she was afraid now. There was a chance of being stopped for “routine” questioning. In Europe it happened too often. Questions that led to detention while the authorities checked out her story and her passport. And detention would mean fingerprints, detection, identification, and questions she couldn’t afford to answer. If they used a computer they might discover who she really was.

For the moment she was Shahrzad S. Nobari, a 19-year-old citizen of Iran with German ancestry. A student with a five-week visa to visit Canada. To friends like Ray and others she knew abroad, she was Rita. That was usually enough, Rita Mueller. At the youth hostel in Montreal she had signed in as Nobari and told people to call her Rita. It was painful to remember when she had been herself, a 27 years old West German. A fugitive, moving from place to place, country to country, for more than five years.

While she walked west along Line Road, Customs Agent John Ryan was heading east in his patrol car with the headlights off. He had covered this zone for about four years, normally on the lookout for drug smugglers. He had been parked at the corner of Line Road and South Shore Drive, sitting out his shift, when he decided that something was up.

What he had noticed through the rear view mirror was a brown car, with three passengers, moving slowly along the road, then turning back in the opposite direction. It was just enough to arouse his suspicions.

Kristina noticed the car heading in her direction. The fact that its headlights were off nudged her fear up another notch. When the car reached her it stopped, and the man in the driver’s seat called her over to talk. Refusing would be suspicious, but speaking to a stranger could be risky.

While she weighed the alternatives Ryan stepped out of the car. Then she caught a glimpse of his badge, pinned to the shirt of his blue uniform. He asked where she’d been and where she was heading.

“I am out for a walk,” she said.

“Anything to declare?” 

“No.” Then he asked to see her purse. 

She handed it over and the agent examined its contents on the hood of his car. Aside from the beam of his flashlight, the road was dark. He found some notes, a wallet, a candybar, and a passport. Paging through it, he noticed the Canadian visa and Iranian citizenship. But there was no US visa.

“Would you step inside the car?” He said. It wasn’t a request.


Next: Guilt by Association