Chicago area college students imprisoned in Denmark for 2 weeks after Uber fare dispute
Two Chicago area college students are being held in a Copenhagen prison after a ride with an Uber driver went wrong. Their parents are there now doing what they can, but they keep running into legal roadblocks.
The two college students are St. Ignatius College Prep alumni, and were visiting friends for spring break in Denmark. Their parents said they got in an Uber, realized they put in the wrong address, and asked to get out.
What transpired next is why they have been in a prison for nearly two weeks.
"Approximately 6 a.m. in the morning, I got a text from a foreign number saying, 'Mom, I'm in prison in Copenhagen,'" Sara Buchen-Ray said.
She was four hours away from picking up her 20-year-old son, Owen Ray, from O'Hare International Airport on March 31 when she got his text.
Now she's in a Copenhagen Airbnb, doing anything she can to get him out of a Danish prison. That's where Owen was put after he rode in an Uber with a friend.
"When they got in the Uber, they realized the wrong address had been put in," she said.
Buchen-Ray said they asked to get out and ordered a new ride.
"Approximately five minutes later, the Uber driver circled back around and found them walking and started yelling at them," she said.
Buchen-Ray says this is all according to video played in a Danish court hearing this week.
The Uber driver accused Owen and his friend of not paying for the ride, but receipts show they did.
"The Uber driver first says 'I'm going to call the police,' and you can hear them saying, 'We've done nothing wrong. Call the police,'" his mother said.
"While they were waiting at the gates to board their planes to go home, they were arrested by the Danish police," said Buchen-Ray's attorney in Chicago, Jordan Finfer.
Finfer said Owen was arrested at the airport. He has not been charged or convicted, but Finfer said he was detained due to "flight risk."
"Owen is still detained, is likely to be detained through the end of the month – he's never been charged," Finfer said.
"They are in prison where they're locked up 23 hours a day," Buchen-Ray said.
Owen's mother said she gets to speak on the phone with him one day a week, and visit him one day a week.
Now they are waiting for a trial that should take place this month, but it's the years to come she is the most worried about for Owen.
"There are going to be ramifications from this. You know, when you're locked in a jail cell for 23 hours a day, you can't come out without nothing," she said.
That trial should take place this month. However, there is a 5-day court holiday for Easter, which could push it back. So far, Owen and his friend have missed two weeks of college. Owen is a students at Miami University in Ohio.
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Yahoo
6 hours ago
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Mother details ‘nightmare' after Trump sends son to El Salvador mega-prison where he's being held incommunicado
The last time Ydalis Chirinos Polanco heard from her 25-year-old son was on March 15, when he called her from the El Valle immigration detention center in Texas. He thought he was coming home to Venezuela. Instead, that same day, he was put on a plane to the notorious CECOT prison in El Salvador, a maximum-security facility for terrorists and gang members where he has been held incommunicado ever since. 'He left Venezuela for a better future and it turned into a nightmare,' Chirinos Polanco said through a translator in an interview with The Independent from her home in Valencia, Venezuela. She used to speak daily with her son. She hasn't heard from him in over 85 days. Being sent away so soon wasn't what Ysqueibel Peñaloza had hoped for when he arrived in the U.S. last September, passing legally through California's San Ysidro border crossing, after barely surviving a journey through the Darien Gap in the Panamanian jungle. The plan was to earn money to send back home, and he joined a friend in Raleigh, North Carolina. He found work as a gardener and Uber driver, according to his family and lawyer. (Uber said it did not have a record of Peñaloza working for the company.) Since he was a teenager, Peñaloza, who a past employer from Chile described as 'honorable and hardworking' in a support video, had worked to pay for his younger sister's education. His wages in America allowed him to send enough money back home to fund a semester of her training to be a physical therapist. The 25-year-old's temporary stint in the U.S. was cut short in February, when immigration agents detained him and his friend Arturo Suarez, a Venezuelan singer who uses the stage name Suarez Vzla, as they filmed a music video. Peñaloza had entered the U.S. legally, using the CBP One app, which allowed him to remain in the country temporarily as he awaited an April court date. But he and Suarez were among the more than 100 Venezuelans that the administration eventually accused of being members of the Venezuelan Tren de Aragua gang, using the wartime Alien Enemies Act of 1798 to summarily deport the men from the U.S. without letting them challenge their removals in court. Peñaloza's mother said her son has never had anything to do with a gang, and was too committed to his work to ever get into trouble. The Department of Homeland Security, for its part, told The Independent that Peñaloza was arrested during an operation 'targeting a known Tren de Aragua gang member,' which netted multiple arrests and a firearm. He was then 'confirmed to be' a member of the gang on March 15 — the same day Trump invoked the Alien Enemies Act and the removal flights departed to El Salvador. The department declined to share the basis of this conclusion. 'We are confident in our law enforcement's intelligence, and we aren't going to share intelligence reports and undermine national security every time a gang member denies he is one,' Assistant Secretary Tricia McLaughlin wrote in a statement to The Independent. 'That would be insane.' Chirinos Polanco only found out her son had been sent to CECOT when she spotted him in the slickly produced propaganda videos of the men being manhandled and shaved by prison guards at the facility in El Salvador, thanks to an olive branch tattoo on his right knee. He resurfaced again in May, in the background of a visit to the prison by Matt Gaetz, the former Trump administration attorney general nominee, who is now a host at OAN. In the prison, which has a $6 million deal with the U.S., Chirinos Polanco said she saw her son waving to the camera in what she interpreted as a hand signal for help. Around him, inmates jeered at Gaetz and cried 'Freedom!' in Spanish at the passing camera crew. 'He doesn't know that his family is fighting for him to get out,' Peñaloza's mother said, through tears. Chirinos Polanco worries about her son's state of mind inside CECOT, which was designed to house terrorists and is home to scores of admitted gang members that Salvadoran officials openly say will likely never be released. Prior to being sent to CECOT, the quiet 25-year-old told his mother he would sit and cry to himself for hours in immigration detention. She says she can only imagine what it's like now, since 'they have terrorized him in El Salvador.' The circumstances of his arrest — a sudden sweep of an immigrant who entered the U.S. legally, before a court process could play out, with little publicly presented evidence of gang membership, and baffled family members — have been common among the Venezuelans sent to CECOT under the Alien Enemies Act. U.S. immigration officials have insisted they conducted a rigorous vetting process to find the men's gang and other criminal affiliations. Internally, though, the Trump administration knew that just six of the 238 Venezuelans known to have been sent to CECOT had been convicted of violent crimes, while over half had no criminal record or pending charges at all outside of immigration violations, according to government data obtained by a coalition of U.S. and Venezuelan news outlets. (The government insisted, in response to the reporting, that the men in the data are 'actually terrorists, human rights abusers, gang members and more — they just don't have a rap sheet in the U.S.') Further confounding scrutiny, the government has not publicly released a list of those it sent to the prison, and has shared little public evidence of the men's alleged gang ties. As The Independent has reported, the federal government appears to have instead largely based its gang determinations on tattoos many of the men had, even though family members, tattoo artists who made the images, and experts on Venezuelan gangs say the tattoos don't symbolize membership in Tren de Aragua. The Department of Homeland Security told The Independent that 'its intelligence assessments go well beyond just gang affiliate tattoos and social media.' The entire process amounts to an egregious violation of due process, according to Margaret Cargioli, directing attorney for policy and advocacy at the Immigrant Defenders Law Center, an advocacy group representing eight of the men inside CECOT, even though it can't communicate with them. 'What has been one of the most astonishing things is the utter disregard of human beings' due process and their human rights, due to being sent to a place where it was known they would be excommunicated from their families, attorneys, and loved ones, as well as have no access to justice,' Cargioli told The Independent. She said the government did not, and still hasn't, presented 'any evidence' in immigration court that Peñaloza was a gang member before sending him to CECOT. DHS Assistant Secretary McLaughlin added in her statement that the administration has a 'stringent law enforcement assessment in place that abides by due process under the US Constitution.' 'There IS due process for these terrorists who all have final deportation orders,' she wrote. Those challenging the Alien Enemies Act removals argue the men were removed without any meaningful notice, chance to challenge their status, or decision on final removal orders from an immigration judge, the typical deportation process. When asked, the White House did not answer specific questions about the evidence against Peñaloza or criticisms of the removal process to CECOT. 'President Trump is committed to keeping his promises to the American people and removing dangerous criminal and terrorist illegal aliens who pose a threat to the American public,' White House spokesperson Abigail Jackson said in a statement to The Independent. 'CECOT is one of the most secure facilities in the world and there is no better place for the sick criminals we are deporting from the United States.' Faced with this immigration black hole, mothers like Chirinos Polanco have taken on the role of activists. They have staged protests in Caracas, kept in touch with each other during regular meetings and calls, and shared money to support those who depended on their now-detained relatives for remittances. During the interview, Chirinos Polanco, in between sharing family photos, was preparing for a sit-in in front of a United Nations office in Caracas, the kind of demonstration staged by countless women living under repressive regimes in Latin America on behalf of their disappeared loved ones — only this time, the protest is directed at the world's most powerful democracy. Chirinos Polanco said the detentions weigh heavily on the families that they left behind. Her father can't bear to look at pictures of Peñaloza. One of the women she was in touch with, the grandmother of a man in CECOT, recently died of a heart attack in Perú, which her family attributes to the disappearances, Chirinos Polanco said. U.S. courts may offer these families a last chance to connect with their loved ones. The U.S. Supreme Court ruled in May that the administration didn't give the alleged Tren de Aragua members the proper chance to contest their removals, and on Wednesday, a federal judge gave the government a week to explain how it would 'facilitate' giving these 137 men a chance at appeal. Such an unlikely reversal has some precedent. After months of public pressure, and a Supreme Court ruling that the U.S. must aid in his return, the U.S. retook custody of Kilmar Abrego Garcia, a Salvadoran immigrant it admitted it had mistakenly sent to CECOT despite a court order barring his removal to El Salvador. The U.S. initially claimed it didn't have the power or the need to seek Garcia's return, though the government appears to have changed course, and the man now reportedly faces a federal grand jury indictment in the U.S. for allegedly illegally transporting undocumented immigrants. Chirinos Polanco hopes, with the world watching, the U.S. will finally give a fair hearing to the remaining men inside CECOT. 'We all should have the right to defend ourselves and be heard,' she said. 'Those Venezuelans who were sent to CECOT, they were silenced completely.' Until that silence is broken, Chirinos Polanco barely sleeps and often wakes up early. She's waiting for a phone call from her son that might never come.
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Every item on this page was chosen by an ELLE editor. We may earn commission on some of the items you choose to buy. Spoilers ahead. Viewers were enraptured by the first season of crime drama Dept. Q, which followed irritable cold case detective Carl Morck (Matthew Goode) investigating a strange disappearance. Unsurprisingly, the season 1 finale of Dept. Q—which is based on a 10-book series by Danish crime writer Jussi Adler-Olsen—answered a ton of questions about what happened to missing lawyer Merritt Lingard, but it also brought a few more to light. Here's what you need to know about how the first season of gritty detective drama Dept. Q comes to an end. A flashback in episode 8 reveals that Merritt conspired with her high school boyfriend, Harry Jennings, to steal her mother's jewelry in order to raise money to start a new life. However, Merritt's younger brother, William, intervened during the robbery, which led him to become badly injured, causing a traumatic brain injury. In the present day, Merritt figures out she was kidnapped and held hostage by Harry's mom, Ailsa Jennings, and his younger brother, Lyle. Merritt refuses to apologize for Harry's death, despite Ailsa's insistence that her son would be alive if it weren't for the robbery scheme. 'Harry said she weren't right in the head,' Merritt tells Lyle, before calling him the 'psychotic brother.' After she proclaims, 'Harry Jennings deserved to die,' Lyle starts trying to break the glass of the hyperbaric chamber Merritt is locked in—if successful, the sudden change in pressure will likely kill her. As he's hitting the glass, Merritt sees Lyle's face and calls him Sam. In the same episode, the detectives at Dept. Q discover that Harry's brother Lyle had been posing as investigative journalist Sam Haig and having an affair with Merritt. The audience also discovers that Lyle and Ailsa were able to kidnap Merritt from the ferry as she'd told Sam—who was really Lyle in disguise—what time she would be traveling to Mhòr. In an old video shown at the start of the finale, a young Lyle shares that his mother used to lock him in the hyperbaric chamber as a form of torture or punishment. It's also revealed that Lyle would regularly hallucinate Harry following his death, and at one point believed Sam, who was incarcerated with him at the same 'institution for troubled boys,' was his dead brother, according to Tudum. Having been diagnosed with Enhanced Personality Disorder, Lyle remained in a mental health institution until six years ago, when he started working on the ferry to Mhòr. Lyle and Sam reconnected as adults, which led to an unfortunate series of events. 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Yahoo
a day ago
- Yahoo
State withheld records in Rio Arriba sheriff death investigation
The New Mexico Department of Public Safety took 42 days — far beyond the 15 days allowed by state statute — to release information this week about the mysterious April death of Rio Arriba County Sheriff Billy Merrifield. Forensic pathologists reported May 15 that Merrifield's Easter morning death was due to the toxic effects of fentanyl and alcohol. Other questions remained unanswered, including whether the sheriff knowingly consumed fentanyl and where he may have obtained it. In the days after Merrifield was found dead in his patrol car April 20, The New Mexican filed a public records request for related police reports and other information. At first, the Department of Public Safety refused to release additional records. Next, it described the request as burdensome, buying the agency more time. After additional complaints from The New Mexican, it released a batch of investigative reports Thursday evening — 42 days after receiving the request. Those records — 105 pages of reports, photos and other documents — show the agency's investigators have not yet determined how Merrifield ingested the fatal dose of fentanyl that caused his death, along with alcohol. The recent secrecy over Merrifield's death reflects a pattern of slow-walked disclosure of public records like state police reports and lapel camera footage, shielding public information on homicides, crashes, police shootings around the state and other public safety-related incidents. The department's initial decision to withhold police reports from the investigation — as well as documents in another unrelated case — appears to have potentially run afoul of state public records laws and a Supreme Court ruling in recent years. Department of Public Safety spokesperson Herman Lovato declined to respond to some questions about the matter in an email Friday, but he wrote each request through the New Mexico Inspection of Public Records Act 'is addressed individually' by department staff. 'If it involves an active or ongoing investigation, records that are complete will be produced if not subject to an exception, even on an active or ongoing investigation,' Lovato wrote. 'If the records have not been completed because of an active or ongoing investigation, they may be temporarily withheld until completed.' He wrote the department's process 'aligns with New Mexico Supreme Court precedent and the requirements of IPRA.' However, the department's written reason for denying a recent request for state police reports tied to Merrifield's death did not appear consistent with the process Lovato described. In response to a request from The New Mexican seeking reports on Merrifield's death, a staff member at the department's records division wrote in early May, 'this is still a active/on going investigation and I was not given the approval to release the documents as they are still being [processed].' About two weeks later, the department's reasoning changed, with a different staffer writing the request for reports was 'overburdensome.' The records were finally released Thursday after The New Mexican submitted a complaint concerning an alleged violation of the Inspection of Public Records Act to the Department of Justice — and after sending emailed questions about the records request to officials that day. Advocate: Court ruling 'clear' Christine Barber, the executive director of New Mexico Foundation for Open Government, said in an interview the department's initial denial of the request appeared to potentially violate a state Supreme Court ruling a few years ago on the specific topic of records in active law enforcement investigations. The ruling came as a result of a lawsuit brought by Andrew Jones against the Department of Public Safety, which had denied his request for records related to a state police investigation into the fatal shooting of his brother by Albuquerque police officers. Barber said the 2020 ruling was clear, holding that 'the status of a criminal investigation as 'ongoing' does not serve to exempt public records related to the investigation from inspection under [the Inspection of Public Records Act].' 'Sometimes government agencies need to be reminded of the law,' Barber said, noting past litigation between the Foundation for Open Government and the Department of Public Safety. In a 2007 settlement between the department, the foundation and several news publications — including The New Mexican — department officials agreed to provide records like incident reports within the 15-day timeline required by state law. An attorney for the government transparency group said at least one other journalist reported receiving a similar response recently when requesting the reports on Merrifield's death, but she added she did not recall other recent instances of state law enforcement agencies explicitly citing an open investigation as the reason for denying or delaying the production of records. The Department of Public Safety cited the Supreme Court's decision in a letter denying a different request from The New Mexican earlier this year for an incident report in a different death investigation. In the letter, staff acknowledged the court ruling stated exemptions to public records law 'cannot be interpreted so broadly as to withhold records simply due to the existence of an ongoing investigation.' The letter described exemptions that allow for redactions of parts of records, like names of potential subjects and informants, and ultimately stated the agency would withhold the entire report. 'Once the investigation is closed and no longer subject to these legal restrictions, certain records may become available for inspection,' the letter states. Weeks to fulfill requests While records are not usually withheld outright by the Department of Public Safety, it often takes several months to disclose reports from an investigation. In the past two years, The New Mexican has submitted at least 24 requests to the Department of Public Safety seeking reports or other documents such as the agency's written policies, lists of employees or financial data — not including requests for records like police lapel camera footage. The department provided the requested records in an average timeframe of more than two months per request. A little more than half of the requests for police reports or other documents were deemed 'broad' or 'burdensome' by the department's record staff, which allows for delays longer than 15 days. As of Friday, records have not been provided in response to two of the requests. Department of Justice spokesperson Lauren Rodriguez said attorneys from the division that investigate public records complaints had contacted the Department of Public Safety earlier this week regarding the complaint from The New Mexican. The investigators — after being assigned a complaint — usually contact the government agency in question to obtain more information, she said. They are trying to determine if there is actually noncompliance as well as whether the agency's staff knew their actions were out of compliance and whether they acted purposely in denying or delaying a records request. Apart from the complaint submitted against the Department of Public Safety by The New Mexican, the department has been the subject of one other records-related complaint so far this year to the Department of Justice, Rodriguez said. Gov. Michelle Lujan Grisham's office did not respond to an email seeking comment on the Department of Public Safety's practices concerning the release of public records. Lujan Grisham stood behind the department when asked about the issue last year, with a spokesperson writing the governor 'defers to law enforcement authorities to determine when the release of information is appropriate based on the status of ongoing investigations, notification of next of kin, etc.'
