I probably shouldn't have asked Laura where she was, but I had to know.

"Where are you?" I probed. "Have you been moved?"

I put my phone on speaker so Paul could listen in. I was incredibly emotional, and we wanted to make sure I didn't miss or misinterpret anything Laura said. He kicked me to stop me from asking questions that might compromise her.

After a brief pause and in an obvious attempt to avoid answering my question, Laura replied, "The conditions here are decent."

Paul was right. I had asked Laura a question she could not answer. I hoped I hadn't gotten her into trouble, but her captors had to understand how concerned we were. I was in awe of my sister's composure during what I'm sure was a heavily monitored conversation. I wondered how she was maintaining her strength after being told that she was sentenced to a labor prison; my heart hurt so much at the thought.

Laura said she had been given a mandatory medical examination to determine if she was fit to go to prison. An endoscopy performed there in North Korea revealed that she did have an ulcer, and she would be given a bit more time for her health to improve before she was sent away.

The year before, I had accompanied my sister to have an endoscopic procedure in Los Angeles. A tiny scope was inserted down her throat to check inside her stomach. She was put under heavy anesthesia for the procedure, but even so she felt terribly ill afterward. Given my experience in North Korea with the Nepalese medical delegation years before, I shuddered at the thought of the medical facility and antiquated treatment that my sister likely had to endure.

"I feel okay," she said, "but the prosecutor was there with me at the examination, and he kept telling the medical staff that I'm well enough to go to prison. I'm really terrified."

To rea.s.sure her and to send a message to those listening in on the call, I told Laura I believed that discussions were being held at the highest level about her situation.

"Our side is ready to do what it has to do," I urged, "including sending someone over immediately to come get you."

In closing, Laura said one final thing. "The window is closing," she said. "We need to move from the talking stage to the acting stage."

As soon as I hung up the phone, I called Al Gore. I told him about the endoscopy and particularly that Laura had sent a message with her comment about the window closing and the need for action.

"They're trying to drum up angst from the family," he said.

He was always extremely careful about what he said on the phone, and I wondered why he sounded so certain now. Then he said something that excited me because it seemed as if definitive contact had been made.

"We may be close to a break," he said. "We have to just sit tight." But before what he was saying could sound too positive, he added, "But we can't be sure, because there may be more than one inst.i.tutional player in Pyongyang."

This alarmed me, because I was pretty sure he was referring to certain suspicions I'd heard about the leadership in North Korea-in particular about Kim Jong Il and who was calling the shots there. Reports were coming from South Korea that the Dear Leader was very ill, possibly on his deathbed, with pancreatic cancer.

Kim Jong Il hadn't been seen publicly in many months. There was also scuttleb.u.t.t in the press about an alleged power struggle between hard-liners and more moderate voices inside the Foreign Ministry. To add to the confusion, rumors were circulating that Kim Jong Il's youngest son might be taking the helm of the country. Some reports indicated that the twenty-five-year-old was more of an extremist than his father, while others speculated the opposite.

Theories and hypotheses about who was in control were being spewed from every direction. But one thing was certain: no one knew for sure.

Around the time I was hearing reports that Kim Jong Il might be sick, I got a call from Michele Chan, who is married to Dr. Patrick Soon-Shiong. I had met Michele and Dr. Soon-Shiong at the annual fund-raiser for Saint John's Hospital in Santa Monica, where my husband, Paul, is a radiation oncologist. Dr. Soon-Shiong is a billionaire, and he recently donated tens of millions of dollars to rebuild the entire hospital. He was being honored the night I met them. According to his company biography, "Dr. Soon-Shiong developed the first FDA approved protein nanoparticle delivery technology for the treatment of metastatic breast cancer."

Michele told me that the drug was also being developed for lung, melanoma, gastric, and pancreatic cancer. She said her husband's company, Abraxis BioScience, wanted to offer the revolutionary treatment to Kim Jong Il-entirely free of charge-in exchange for the safe release of Laura and Euna. I was incredibly touched by Michele's call and offer. I got in touch with Kurt Tong at the State Department right away and asked if this was something to consider.

"It's an interesting thought," he said, "but bringing up the treatment to the North Koreans would be asking them to acknowledge that the Dear Leader was ill."

He had a good point. Given the formidable face that North Korea likes to project to its own citizens and to the world, the mere intimation that their leader was unhealthy could undermine his dictatorial position. So the idea about exchanging the Abraxis pancreatic cancer treatment for the girls' release was never presented.

LAURA.

A FEW DAYS AFTER FEW DAYS AFTER the phone calls, I was allowed another visit with Amba.s.sador Foyer. As on the previous visits, I cherished each second with the gentle amba.s.sador. He had already received news from my family about my condition and told me that medicine was being sent from them, which he would pa.s.s along to the Foreign Ministry without delay. I didn't know it at the time, but this meeting with Amba.s.sador Foyer would be my last. the phone calls, I was allowed another visit with Amba.s.sador Foyer. As on the previous visits, I cherished each second with the gentle amba.s.sador. He had already received news from my family about my condition and told me that medicine was being sent from them, which he would pa.s.s along to the Foreign Ministry without delay. I didn't know it at the time, but this meeting with Amba.s.sador Foyer would be my last.

Three long months had pa.s.sed since our apprehension along the border. It was now late June, and the summer's heat was blistering. During a walk with Mr. Yee, he told me that he was no longer going to be in charge of me now that the investigation was over. He said a new person would be responsible for me and that Mr. Baek was also going to be released.

I was deeply affected by this news. It had taken me a while to build up a certain trust and rapport with Mr. Yee. On top of that, I had come to see him as a source of valuable information. I relied on the news he provided about what was happening in my country and how the authorities in North Korea were deliberating.

"I don't want you guys to go," I said pleadingly. "Who will come take me for walks and talk to me, and who will interpret for me?"

"You will be allowed to walk still, and there will be someone who speaks English."

"Will you come and visit me?"

"I can't come every day. My job is over. Perhaps I can come once a week."

"But please remember, you have to keep your promise," I said, referring to our late-night conversation over beer. "I did my part and cooperated in the investigation. You have to do your part and help me go home."

"You will go home eventually. I don't know when, but it will happen. And I will see you when you leave."

"Are we talking months or years?" I asked desperately.

"That is up to your government," he replied.

That evening at dinner, I was given a bowl of Pyongyang's famous cold noodles instead of the usual fare. Looking on while I slurped the chewy strings of buckwheat, Min-Jin asked, "Do you like the noodles?"

"Yes, they are very good," I replied. Indeed, the noodles, mixed with cuc.u.mber, egg, kimchi, and ginger, were exceptionally tasty. It was a nice treat.

"They were brought in from a hotel," she said proudly.

I remembered when Mr. Yee had boasted about Pyongyang's famous cold noodles. "One day, I will get you some," he told me once when we were driving to meet the amba.s.sador. I knew he had ordered these noodles for me. As I sipped the ice-cold, savory broth, it dawned on me that this was a parting gesture, that I would not be seeing him again, at least for some time. Even though he had been tasked with interrogating me, part of me felt a real sadness about his absence.

The next morning, while I was looking out the window, Min-Jin approached me with a melancholy expression. "Laura, today is our last day. We are leaving," she said dolefully.

"What!" I exclaimed. "That's terrible! When did you find this out? Do you know what is going to happen to me?"

"I just found out this morning and was told to gather my belongings. There will be new guards a.s.signed to you."

"But I don't want new guards!" I cried. "And how will I communicate with them?"

"There will be someone who speaks English, probably better than me."

"No. Your English is great."

"Thank you for teaching me," she said.

"Where will you go? Will you go back to your old job?" She had never told me what she did professionally.

"Yes," she replied glumly. "But I would prefer to be here." I got the feeling that, in some small way, I had opened her eyes to another world.

As I sat in despair, worried about the new people who would be taking charge of me, Kyung-Hee walked in. At the sight of me sobbing, she too began to tear up.

"I just want to thank you both for being so kind to me," I told them appreciatively. "No matter what happens to me, I will never forget you." They nodded in silence.

"I hope the new guards are not mean to me," I said.

"Just do what they say," replied Min-Jin. "We'll tell them that you are a 'scaredy-cat,' who is afraid of bugs," she said, smiling. I had taught the guards the expression scaredy-cat scaredy-cat when one of them commented on how much I despised the insects in my room. I'd become an expert at killing the dozens of mosquitoes that invaded my quarters each night. when one of them commented on how much I despised the insects in my room. I'd become an expert at killing the dozens of mosquitoes that invaded my quarters each night.

"Well, if I ever get to go home, I hope that one day we will see each other again under different circ.u.mstances," I said.

"I would like that," she replied. "Perhaps we will meet each other abroad."

I got up and hugged her. She seemed taken aback by the gesture and stood upright as I squeezed her.

I was sad to see these women go. We had spent almost every moment over the last three months together in these confined quarters. I remembered how suspicious they were of me on that first frigid March morning, and how intimidated I was by them. Now we were parting as friends. I was going to miss them.

As they were leaving, a small group of people entered the room. I immediately recognized one of the men. It was the judge from the trial. He was accompanied by another man and three women. The judge started speaking, and one of the girls, who was pretty and pet.i.te, began to translate. Her English was very good. It wasn't perfect like Mr. Baek's-whose translation was not only flawless but who was able to adopt the moods and tones of the person speaking-but I didn't have any trouble understanding her.

"Do you know who I am?" the judge asked.

"Yes. You are the judge from the trial," I responded.

"Do you know why I am here?"

"No, sir."

"I have received the results from your medical checkup. It says you are not ready to be sent to the labor camp because of your ulcer and stomach lesions. You will remain here and be placed under medical detention. Your sentence will be suspended until you are deemed able to go to prison. Do you have any questions?"

"Yes, sir," I replied. "What is going to happen to my friend, to Euna?"

"She is none of your business," he responded sternly.

"Sir, I don't know if she is fit to go to prison, but I don't want her to have to go to the prison alone. If she is being sent to the labor camp, then I would like to go with her."

My comment seemed to surprise him, and he paused for several seconds.

"Just worry about yourself!" he finally replied sternly.

A series of doc.u.ments written in Korean were placed in front of me, along with a pad of red ink. I was told they outlined my new status, and I was ordered to sign and fingerprint each page.

The judge pointed to the other man in the room. "This man is in charge of you. He is your guarantor. And these are your guards. If you need anything, you should ask her." He pointed to the woman translating. "She will inform the guarantor. You should not ask the guarantor directly."

I was left with the new translator and the two guards, who ordered me to go back to my room. I felt as if I was experiencing deja vu and starting all over again with these unknown figures staring at me contemptuously. I began to walk circles in my room, and they watched every movement I made.

I was now under the jurisdiction of North Korea's highest court. The investigation was over, so there was no real need for me to speak with anyone. I missed the walks with Mr. Yee and Mr. Baek, particularly those toward the end of the investigation when we began to engage in small talk. I enjoyed sharing details of my life with them and was intrigued to hear Mr. Yee's perspective on the United States.

I also found it impossible to create any bonds with the new women in charge. They were different from the previous guards; they seemed more regimented and less educated. I went for days without uttering a word to anyone.

If I was going to break through to any of them, I figured it would be the self-a.s.sured translator. I could tell from her dainty skirts and blouses and her elegant features that, unlike the two other women, she was part of a special cla.s.s in North Korea. I was surprised when I saw that she had a personal cell phone. This was the first time in my months in captivity that I had spotted anyone with a mobile device.

The North Korean government began allowing cell-phone use again in late 2008 after shutting it down in 2004. The regime gave no reason for the ban, but it's believed they wanted to prevent people from disseminating information about the country and its food shortages. Now, cell phones are reserved for the privileged, who must receive permission from the government to own one. The cost of purchasing a phone is out of reach for the average citizen, and the phones can only call within the country.

Chinese cell phones, which can make calls outside of North Korea, do get smuggled into the country, however, and some North Koreans are taking the risk of using these phones to call relatives who have defected and are now living in China or South Korea. It's believed that those caught using a cell phone without permission could face execution.

When I first heard the high-pitched ring on the translator's phone, I thought I had been transported into another time. I had gotten used to not hearing the constant buzzing and ringing that has become such an ingrained part of our modern society. Her phone seemed like an alien object in a gadget-free world.

This personal phone was not the only thing that told me about her family's unique status. She had an MP3 player that she used to listen to language instruction-she was learning how to speak Czech. Special facial creams, shampoos, mirrors, and makeup overflowed her toiletry basket. Each morning she made instant coffee with cream that she stored in a small refrigerator that had been brought into the guards' area. She also had mango-flavored powder to make juice and, to my surprise, a few bottles of Coca-Cola, a symbol of U.S. capitalism. I nicknamed her Paris after the young Hilton heiress. She wasn't flashy or extravagant, but she was clearly privileged in a society of have-nots. Watching Paris with all her fancy possessions reminded me of the anger expressed by the North Korean defector I had met the evening before our arrest. He had talked about the growing disparity between the elite and everyone else in North Korean society.

Perhaps because of her upper-cla.s.s status and everything the Dear Leader had provided for her and her family, Paris was compelled to pay special homage to Kim Jong Il. My previous guards spoke of their leader with immense pride, but Paris seemed to especially revere him. She turned up the television volume anytime he came on the screen, which was often. While I was given a single grubby cloth to clean the rooms every morning, Paris reserved a special unsoiled white towel to scrub the portraits of the father and son leaders. And she was meticulous about making sure the pictures hung perfectly.

LISA.

I WAS CONSTANTLY THINKING WAS CONSTANTLY THINKING of ways to get Laura and Euna released. I heard that Kim Jong Il is a big lover of Hollywood movies and that his film collection is one of the largest in the world. This made me think the Dear Leader might be impressed by some of America's celebrity names. I've always been skeptical of celebrity involvement in causes because I've met too many "stars" who use social activism to boost their careers. But ours was a case where Hollywood stars might have more influence than politicians. of ways to get Laura and Euna released. I heard that Kim Jong Il is a big lover of Hollywood movies and that his film collection is one of the largest in the world. This made me think the Dear Leader might be impressed by some of America's celebrity names. I've always been skeptical of celebrity involvement in causes because I've met too many "stars" who use social activism to boost their careers. But ours was a case where Hollywood stars might have more influence than politicians.

One of the performers at the Los Angeles vigil, a talented local musician named David Kater, wrote a song that was meant to rally people behind the movement to free Laura and Euna. It was a soulful piece called "Stand Together" that he composed and donated to us. It gave me an idea.

If I could get someone famous to sing the song, maybe a number of A-list film actors would partic.i.p.ate in a music video that encouraged diplomacy and peace, and could defuse tensions between North Korea and the rest of the world. The actors would hold up signs that said things like LOVE, PEACE, DIALOGUE, etc. Months had gone by and nothing was working, so I decided this was worth a try. I phoned the Los Angeles branch of the agency that represents me, William Morris Endeavor, to ask if any of its clients would appear in the video.

"It would only take a few minutes of their time," I said to my agent. "All they have to do is hold up a sign."

I got positive answers from Catherine Zeta-Jones, Forest Whitaker, Keanu Reeves, and a number of others. Angelina Jolie told me by e-mail that it wasn't something she would typically do, but she would consider being part of the video. She was very gracious and said she and Brad Pitt wanted to do what they could to help. Things were coming together. Now I had to find a singer.

Paul and I were home the night of June 24, thinking about who the best candidate would be. I wanted it to be someone recognized internationally. A few names came to mind: John Legend, John Mayer, Sheryl Crow. Then Paul suggested Michael Jackson. He was exactly the right person, but would he do it? That night, Paul downloaded "Man in the Mirror" from iTunes, and we both sat silently listening to the lyrics and Michael's unique cadence as he sang it. I knew that our longtime family friend Gotham Chopra was very close to Michael. I planned on calling Gotham the next day and asking him if he could reach out to his friend.

On June 25, before I had time to call him, the news reported that Michael Jackson had died of a drug overdose. When I spoke to Gotham a few days later, he told me that Michael and he had spoken about Laura during their last conversation, just weeks before his death. Michael had seen the news reports of her capture and knew Gotham was a close friend of our family.

Late one night, Michael phoned him to ask if there was anything he could do to help. Gotham would describe the last time he spoke with Michael in a piece he wrote for the Huffington Post Web site. It was called "Michael Jackson and Kim Jong Il."

In it, Gotham wrote: He [Michael] asked me whether I had had any contact with Laura. I told him I had written her a few letters and had been a.s.sured they were getting through. Outside of that, her own family had only heard from her twice-brief monitored phone calls-in the over three months they had been imprisoned. When I told him that, Michael paused. "Do you think," he said hesitantly, "that the leader of North Korea could be a fan of mine?"

According to Gotham, Michael wondered if Kim Jong Il knew of his music. He told Gotham that if the North Korean leader did like him, and if it would help, he would go to the Communist state to perform for him. That chance would never come.

I HADN'T DONE ANYTHING HADN'T DONE ANYTHING work-related in more than three months, but toward the end of June, I decided to take on a couple of a.s.signments. It was nearly impossible to report stories when the most important one to me was happening in my own family. work-related in more than three months, but toward the end of June, I decided to take on a couple of a.s.signments. It was nearly impossible to report stories when the most important one to me was happening in my own family.

Although I am an exclusive correspondent for The Oprah Winfrey Show, The Oprah Winfrey Show, they can't feature my segments every day, so they allow me to do some reporting for a couple of other media outlets. Before Laura's capture, I had started working on another National Geographic doc.u.mentary about, of all things, the colossal spike in kidnappings in Phoenix, Arizona, as a result of the violence spilling over from Mexico. A big investigation was going down with the Phoenix Police Department, and my producer asked if I'd like to be part of it. I agreed, knowing that if anything were to happen with Laura's situation, I could be on a plane within hours. they can't feature my segments every day, so they allow me to do some reporting for a couple of other media outlets. Before Laura's capture, I had started working on another National Geographic doc.u.mentary about, of all things, the colossal spike in kidnappings in Phoenix, Arizona, as a result of the violence spilling over from Mexico. A big investigation was going down with the Phoenix Police Department, and my producer asked if I'd like to be part of it. I agreed, knowing that if anything were to happen with Laura's situation, I could be on a plane within hours.

I arrived in Phoenix from Los Angeles at 8:00 A.M A.M., and the investigation was already under way. Hours earlier, a young man in his twenties named Paco had been pulled out of his truck, beaten up, and abducted. In his vehicle was Paco's terrified four-year-old son, who saw everything. After securing information from witnesses in the area, the investigations team reconvened at the police station, and Paco's family and girlfriend were called in. Deeply distressed and forlorn, they were all put into a room to wait to see if Paco's kidnappers would call to ask for a ransom. I was told that this is normal procedure: when someone is abducted, often the kidnappers call the family members within twenty-four to forty-eight hours to demand money for the release. If a call came, the Phoenix Police Department would be ready for it.

Hours went by with no word. The cops let me take Paco's girlfriend into another room to see if she would agree to be interviewed. Her name was Sandra, and she was a wreck. Her eyes were puffy red, and black eyeliner was smudged all over her face from crying and wiping away the tears. She was wearing what appeared to be slippers. She must have left her house immediately upon learning of Paco's abduction and hadn't had a chance to change clothes.

As I watched her sob in anguish, I felt like I was looking at myself. I knew exactly what she was feeling. For months I had been asking similar questions about my little sister. Where in the h.e.l.l was she? What happened? Will I ever see her again? Where in the h.e.l.l was she? What happened? Will I ever see her again?

I started to cry. Sandra looked up at me in confusion. I told her I was the one whose sister was being held in North Korea-she knew the story right away. And then I embraced her. I could feel her body shaking as I held her. We stood crying and holding each other for what seemed like ten minutes. Our circ.u.mstances were so different but similar at the same time. The biggest difference, though, was that I knew that Laura was alive. I couldn't say the same for Paco.

The two of us came out after about thirty minutes and walked into a room filled with police officers. This time, we both had black, smeared eyeliner all over our faces. My producer asked me if Sandra had agreed to talk on camera. I looked at him and in a quiet voice replied, "No."

A week later, I took an a.s.signment from ABC's Nightline, Nightline, for which I am a regular contributor. A charter school organization had recently taken over Locke High School, the reputed "toughest school in L.A.," located smack-dab in the middle of the warring gang territories of South Central Los Angeles. A riot had broken out on the Locke campus the previous summer that involved six hundred students. The Green Dot Public Schools charter program came in the next year and imposed a dress code and stabilized the security situation. for which I am a regular contributor. A charter school organization had recently taken over Locke High School, the reputed "toughest school in L.A.," located smack-dab in the middle of the warring gang territories of South Central Los Angeles. A riot had broken out on the Locke campus the previous summer that involved six hundred students. The Green Dot Public Schools charter program came in the next year and imposed a dress code and stabilized the security situation.

All the residents in the surrounding neighborhoods, including the many children, had witnessed or experienced some kind of violence while living in the area. My crew and I shot video and interviews on campus and then ventured out to film around the neighborhoods that envelop Locke High School. Gangs mark their territory by spraying graffiti that covers all the walls, storefronts, and food trucks in the vicinity. These were places that cops would advise people not to visit at night, especially not alone. Some years ago, South Central Los Angeles was considered the homicide capital of the United States. Even in the middle of the day, we were seeing drug deals in progress on multiple street corners, and prost.i.tutes were combing the boulevards for johns.

As I was interviewing a high school student on his street, a strung-out, scantily clad woman who was clearly "working" stopped what she was doing and began to stare at me. I felt a bit uneasy about where I was, and my heart started beating faster. She continued to glare, and then all of a sudden at the top of her lungs she screamed, "Lisa Ling, is that you? Where's your sister, girl?"