PRISONERS OF FATE

He was stunned, simply stunned. It seemed absolutely impossible. Not
his teenage daughter, an aspiring model and member of her high school
prom court, caught at an airport in Lima, Peru, with a bag filled with
cocaine. How could this have happened?

Here he was, a law-and-order person, a former Marine MP, and a
hard-as-nails captain at the local state prison. "The tough old man,"
they call him at the prison. He had been so strict over the years with
Jennifer. She had never gotten into trouble in their small central
Illinois town. Not even a traffic ticket.

Then as his shock passed, worries flooded in. What would happen to
her?

Would she be raped? Would they beat her?

Denny Davis searched for ways to help his daughter and threw himself
into the effort with all of his dogged intensity and faith in living
by the rules. If she was guilty--and she was--he swore that she would
serve her time, but it would be in decent conditions.

Months later, with Jennifer's plight worsening, he tried something
else. He offered himself as a sort of sacrifice. Nightly at dinner, he
would set aside some food, silently praying that Jennifer and the
other American arrested with her, Krista Barnes, would eat what he
would not.

"I wanted to feel the pain they were feeling. I pray that whatever
sickness the kids have that it will come this way," said Denny Davis,
and his gruff, gravelly voice trailed off in the small kitchen. He is
a tall man with a long, drooping mustache. Life, it seems, has
chiseled away at him.

From across the table, Claire Davis, who bears a striking resemblance
to her tall, dark-haired daughter, softly offered an explanation for
her husband's on-and-off fasting and dark moods. "He feels he is not
doing enough," she said in a low voice. "He is Jennifer's rock and
strength, and he hasn't been able to go down there for some time to
see her."

Two and a half years after her arrest, 21-year-old Jennifer Davis
remains stuck in a dirty, overcrowded prison in Lima, where she sleeps
with ear plugs to keep roaches out. Even more troubling, she seems to
have slipped into a corrupt and backward legal quagmire. Her fate in
Peru's court system is less clear now than ever.

Amid their heartbreak, the Davises also point to the "blessings" that
they never thought would have come their way. These have been gestures
of goodwill and support from neighbors and from people they have never
met. Jennifer Davis' plight became a bridge that linked them.

An unnamed neighbor sent large yellow ribbons to all the others in the
modest subdivision that sits on the edge of flat fields in Westville,
just a few miles south of Danville. Most of the ribbons still flutter
from trees in the cold breeze, a source of solace to the Davises, who
had remained silent about their daughter's situation for months,
partly out of uncertainty about how family and friends would deal with
the publicity.

They had also needed time to think over what they would do. Six months
after the arrest, they finally spoke up because they thought they had
a plan: They would fight for her rights under international treaties
and Peruvian laws. With a fax machine, paid for by money raised by
Claire Davis' church, St. Mary's Roman Catholic Church in Westville,
they began their campaign.

But their daughter also had asked them to speak out so that others

would not fall into the same trap.

Besides learning that their child can do wrong, the Davises have made
another discovery, one that shocks and infuriates them: They are
virtually helpless to rescue their child trapped in a deplorable
foreign prison, and the same goes for the U.S. government.

"Your mother-in-law can do more for you than the State Department,"
says Mike Griffith, a New York attorney, who has represented Americans
in trouble overseas for more than 25 years. His first overseas client
was Billy Hayes, whose tale of life in a Turkish prison was turned
into the movie "Midnight Express."

He may be overly critical, as others point out ways U.S. consular
employees around the world have helped stranded Americans. But the
basic fact is that the U.S. government cannot rescue you or protect
you. A 1997 U.S. State Department report said that overworked consular
officers were unable in some countries to even meet the agency's
minimum requirement of visiting imprisoned Americans every three months.

Dennis Jett, the U.S. ambassador to Peru, offers a similarly bracing
version of reality.

"It comes as a rude shock to Americans when they get into these
situations that they are subject to local laws and the local penal
system and the embassy can do very little for them," he said from Lima.

Like other desperate parents, the Davises have been hounded by people
offering ways around the system. They sent $1,500 to a Peruvian lawyer
when Jennifer was arrested, and never heard from him again. One con
artist visited Jennifer regularly in prison and said his clout with
Peruvian officials could free her. He wanted thousands of dollars. An
American called recently, claiming to be a mercenary and promising to
deliver Jennifer to Miami for $100,000. Her parents have turned down
the offers, but lawyers say some families have gone bankrupt from
similar scams.

Realizing the growing number of cases like Jennifer Davis', several
years ago the State Department began sending out posters and brochures
targeted toward college-age travelers. Indeed, Davis could be the
model for one poster that reads, "If someone offers you a free
vacation and a big chunk of cash just for bringing back a suitcase or
package no questions asked--Remember . . . You will be thrown in a
crowded jail cell. You will be given food that is not fit to eat. You
will stay in jail for years and years. . . ."

Jennifer Davis became a crime statistic in September 1996, one of the
more than 2,700 Americans arrested overseas each year, one-third of
them on drug violations. The figures would be higher if they included
the number of Americans who bribe their way out of foreign lock-ups
before they are charged.

She was lured by the promise of $5,000. All that she and her suburban
Los Angeles roommate, Krista Barnes, who was 18 at the time, had to do
was go to Peru, spend three days touring, and carry back cocaine. Both
would get the same amount of money.

After graduating from Westville High School, Davis had moved to
California, dreaming of a modeling career. A few years earlier she had
had a brief fling at modeling in Milan. But her career was moving
slowly, and she was low on cash.

One of the young Peruvian men who solicited the girls had assured them
that they would not get caught. He said there was a regular stream of
carriers, or mules, between Peru and the U.S.

He was right about one thing. Eager to sell cocaine straight from
Peru, a major worldwide source of coca leaves, drug dealers several
years ago started using young, attractive Americans to carry their
drugs. But as soon as the American and Peruvian officials figured out
what was happening, they began nabbing the mules. Today, there are 24
American drug mules in Peruvian prisons, along with dozens of other
mules from Latin America, from Europe, from South Africa.

Once in Peru, Davis' life turned frightful. For nine days she and her
friend were virtually held captive by the Peruvian drug dealers. They
were shuttled from place to place and held in hotel rooms. The dealers

held their airline tickets and U.S. documents until moments before the
women were ready to depart for home. That was when they were given
suitcases with cocaine powder hidden inside.

Davis had wanted to back out the night before her departure, but she
didn't know what to do, she recalled soon after her arrest. She had no
documents and no money, and she didn't know where to turn.

Almost as soon as the two arrived at Lima's airport, bound for the
U.S., they were arrested. It quickly became apparent that they had
been set up. The news media were already there. Peruvian newspapers
the next day showed the two young captured Americans beside the drugs.
Later, they became convinced that they had been pawns in an operation
to draw attention from more massive drug shipments.

Police later said that Davis was carrying 2.2 kilograms of cocaine,
and Barnes was carrying 3.2 kilograms. One kilogram in Chicago today
sells on the street for about $23,000.

From the start, the young women admitted their guilt and police soon
arrested three of the Peruvians who had set them up with the drugs in
Lima.

One night just after her arrest, when she was held in a large central
intake facility, Davis was approached by male prison guards who were
opening her cell door and gesturing provocatively at her. She yelled
until they backed off. She considered taking her life, a thought that
has haunted her.

From there she went to a women's prison in a Lima slum. Built nearly
50 years ago for 230 inmates, the Santa Monica de Chorrillos women's
prison is a grim, high-walled facility that nowadays holds as many as
650 women and as many as 50 of the inmates' young children, ages 3 and
under.

Peru, which spends 74 cents a day on each inmate's food, does not
provide most basics--including a toilet seat--at its prisons. For
meals, the prison provides tea and rice gruel three times a day. And
so, from drinking water to food to toilet paper, Davis buys what she
needs to survive, at a cost of about $300 a month. (Missionaries bring
food into the prison, and inmates sell things too.) Davis often shares
her food and vitamins with others, especially the children.

She suffers from insomnia and weight loss. She has lost hair. Her body
is often covered with blisters. She is shifted from cells holding two
or six inmates to dormitories with dozens of inmates, according to her
parents and others who have visited her. Disease is a problem at the
prison. So are drugs, despair and insanity.

Human rights groups, along with the U.S. government, have repeatedly
lamented the harsh prison conditions in Peru. In its most recent
report, the U.S. State Department said that corruption is a serious
problem among poorly paid prison guards, who barter drugs and sexual
favors with inmates.

When word got around Danville in February 1997 about what had happened
to Jennifer Davis, there were those who immediately stood by the Davis
family. At the Blue Cross-Blue Shield office, where Claire Davis is a
clerk, fellow workers came by to offer their support. Several of Denny
Davis' colleagues at the state's medium-security prison in Danville
did the same. Within a few days, friends and neighbors put on a
benefit to help pay for their daughter's care.

Not everyone, however, felt so sympathetic.

U.S. Rep. Thomas Ewing, a Republican from nearby Pontiac, told the
Danville Commercial-News that Davis' arrest was "a mixed bag" for him.
"That much cocaine--how much damage could it have done to others?" he
asked. A few days later, a letter to the editor appeared in the
Commercial-News that was followed by similar ones. "To the Denny Davis
family: I read your story in the paper about your daughter. She
deserved what she's getting," wrote a woman from Covington, Ind. The
Davises hadn't asked to have their daughter set free, Denny Davis
said, but "this is about the law. This is about humane treatment. We
have treaties with these countries. Why aren't people upset about the
conditions?"

As the letters persisted, there did not appear to be any middle ground
among them, recalls Larry Smith, the editorial page editor for the
Commercial-News. There were those full of anger over the drug dealing
and those that saw a young girl who admitted her mistake and who
deserved mercy.

One letter especially struck him because he thought it had a kernel of
truth. It asked if the same sympathy would have been shown for a poor,
black teenager from the projects in Danville as for a pretty,
small-town white girl. He found himself agreeing with the writer.

The Davises felt hurt by such criticism. During their visits, which
they were able to afford a couple of times a year with some financial
help from others, they had befriended the other Americans in prison in
Peru, many of whom are black and Latino. They had also gone out of
their way, they said, to help a black South African drug mule,
offering to adopt her child so the girl would not be sent to a
Peruvian orphanage. With their help, the South African government
brought the child home.

While others may not have changed their minds about Jennifer Davis,
Ewing did. After meeting the family, and hearing them say that their
daughter should be punished, but in a humane way, the Republican
congressman took up their case.

"Here are two very nice people. They are just ordinary Americans, both
working, both trying to raise a family," he explained. "There are
times they have truly feared for their daughter's mental health and
life. That is pretty hard as a parent, and I am a parent."

The Davises eventually found support among most of Illinois'
congressional delegation. A number of proposals have been passed in
the House and Senate, broadly asking the Peruvians for better
treatment of the Americans in their prisons. U.S. officials can point,
however, only to small improvements.

Others also stepped forward. Ralph Ruebner, a professor at John
Marshall Law School in the Loop, had just begun teaching an
international human rights seminar in February 1997 when he read about
Jennifer Davis' situation. It struck him immediately as a case his
class should look into.

With the law school's support, he went to Peru, visited the women's
prison and talked with court officials. Everything was worse than he
had imagined--the court system archaic, prison conditions brutal.
Leaning on his students' research, he spoke at a hearing of the
Congressional Human Rights Caucus, and stated the case of the two
young Americans before the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights.
At the time, the two had been in prison for nearly a year and a half
and had not yet been charged.

One day Michelle Alfano, who had traveled alone in Latin America at
17, picked up a John Marshall alumni bulletin and read about Ruebner's
effort.

At Eisenhower High School in Blue Island, where she teaches Spanish,
she began a letter-writing campaign among her students to Jennifer and
Krista. Alfano wanted to teach her students what can go wrong when
they get involved in drugs and put their trust in the wrong people.
And she also wanted to teach them about reaching out to others.

Thankful for the mail, the two young women often end their letters
from prison by imploring the students not to make the same mistakes
they did. They say that when they return home, they want to make
careers out of teaching teenagers to stay away from drugs.

After weeks of corresponding with the two young Americans, Alfano
decided she had to see the situation for herself. Traveling to Peru,
not only was she moved by the situation at the women's prison, but she
was stunned by the plight of the young Americans at a men's prison:
"They were starving to death." The guards were also selling drugs to
the men, addicting some of them, too, so they could make money.

It struck her that the Americans had been abandoned. "I tell my kids
these are our people, that this kid from Danville is one of us," she
said.

Since returning home, Alfano has sent back used clothes or money she

raises for the Americans in Peru's prisons. She has become a
fundraiser for the charity the Davis family created to help care for
all the Americans there (Justice for Americans Abroad Inc., 106 W.
Clyde, P.O. Box 117, Fairmont, IL 61841). She said softly: "I am
nobody. But I can make a difference."

If all had gone as expected, Jennifer Davis might have been home by
now. Instead she is at the starting point all over again, stuck in a
cruel Alice-in-Wonderland legal maze.

She went 20 months before she was formally charged. A month later, in
March 1998, she sat through a weeklong trial and was given a six-year
prison term, which meant that she could have gone free as early as
last September. That's because under Peruvian law she would have
qualified for parole after serving one-third of her sentence. She
could have then come home to serve out her parole.

But one of the three Peruvians convicted in the drug scam persuaded a
high-ranking justice to overturn their convictions. He had been
sentenced to 20 years, and the other two were given 15- and 20-year
terms. His attorney claimed that the two Americans had received much
lower sentences because of pressure from the U.S. As ambassador Jett
points out, the two young women received lower sentences because they
had fingered the others in the drug operation.

Since all of the cases had been linked together by Peruvian court
officials, the two Americans must now be retried with the other
Peruvians. No trial date has been set and the process may linger for
years, say lawyers familiar with Peru's courts.

One day as they waited for a call from Jennifer that did not come,
Denny and Claire Davis talked about what they might have done
differently, about how their lives have been altered and about how
they have spent all they can and begun to ring up hefty credit-card
bills on her behalf.

Claire, who grew up in suburban Chicago and comes from two generations
of Chicago-area law enforcement officers, realized at a certain point
she had to stop crying in front of her family. It upset them so. "When
I am by myself, driving in the car, that's when I do my crying," she
said. "So I won't hurt anyone."

For Denny, whose father was a Pentecostal minister, and who had taught
himself as an abused child to hold back his feelings from his family
and friends, this experience has meant learning, he said, to show love
and affection. Whenever he has seemed down on the telephone, he said,
Jennifer will say, "Remember what you told me. God has a purpose for
this and when it is done, we'll be united again."

As he was explaining how he had only recently learned to hug his
daughters, he abruptly stood up, marched out the door and stood alone
on the front lawn. A cold wind was sweeping across the fields.

"Mom, should I go with him?" asked 15-year-old Melissa.

"Go ahead," Claire replied. "He needs you."

"Mom," she called a few minutes later from the doorway, "his tears
just covered me."