Al saner track meet 2013 oscar

A new method for automatic indexing and retrieval is described. The approach is to take advantage of implicit higher‐order structure in the association of terms. Inria is a public research body dedicated to digital science and technology. turned out for our annual meeting, despite the inconvenient time. Please see p. would be interested in presenting for the SLD track . al oil majors, but that took some time. .. a far saner way would have been to go with the mind- Oscar. There is a DVD, with English subtitles, but it is not widely available in the USA.

From the start, investigators had encountered obstruction and threats from the military. Now they had explosive firsthand testimony implicating the Kaibil rapid reaction squad. They also had a startling new lead: Romero thought it was a miracle. Finding the boys was critical. They had to know the truth — they were living with the people who'd killed their parents.

No other atrocity case had this kind of evidence. InRomero and another prosecutor went to Alonzo's home, near the city of Retalhuleu. Because her office had only meager resources, there was no police backup, no weapons. Romero was apprehensive about confronting a commando with such grave allegations. She knew the Kaibiles prided themselves on being killing machines. When she saw the soldier resting in a hammock in front of his tumbledown house, her fear faded.

He's just a simple man, a humble peasant, she thought. Family pictures in Alonzo's home confirmed her suspicions that she was in the right place. Alonzo was a dark-skinned Maya. Five of his children resembled him.

The sixth, a boy named Ramiro, had light skin and green eyes. After the massacre, he had kept Ramiro at the commando school for three months. He brought the child home and told his wife he'd been abandoned. Alonzo said he had enlisted Ramiro, by now 22, in the army.

He refused to disclose the youth's location. When the prosecutor's office inquired, the Defense Ministry asked Ramiro if he had a problem with law enforcement.

Rather than cooperate, the ministry moved him from base to base. Investigators worried that Ramiro would be in grave danger if the military knew he was living proof of an atrocity. Eventually, prosecutors found him and spirited him away. Ramiro told them he had memories of the massacre and the murders of his family.

The Alonzo family had treated him badly, he said, beating him and using him as a near slave.

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During a drunken rage, Alonzo had once fired a rifle at him. Authorities convinced Ramiro to leave the army and got him political asylum in Canada. The search for the other youth foundered. His suspected abductor, Lt. He had been using a truck to transport wood for a house he was building. Questioned in Zacapa ina sister of the lieutenant disclosed that he had brought home the boy in earlyclaiming Oscar was his son with an unmarried woman. Prosecutors found a birth certificate for him, but no sign that the mother actually existed.

The sister admitted that she had heard the boy was from Dos Erres. Oscar had left the country for the United States. His family did not want to help the investigators find him.

Romero decided to call off the search. Investigators made headway on other leads. They had identified numerous perpetrators from the commando squad. Ina judge issued arrest warrants for 17 suspects in the massacre. In the suffocating reality of Guatemala, however, the results were anticlimactic. Police failed to execute most of the warrants.

Defense lawyers bombarded courts with paperwork, appealing to the Supreme Court. They argued that their clients were protected by amnesty laws, a claim that was inaccurate but effectively stalled the prosecution.

Romero had run up against the might of the military. It looked as if justice would elude her, just as Oscar had.

A cousin in Zacapa sent him a copy of an article published in a Guatemala City newspaper. It described Romero's search for two young boys who had survived the massacre and had been raised by military families.

It was quite possible that he had been too young to remember anything about the massacre or his abduction by the lieutenant, the prosecutors said. The newspaper ran a family photo showing Oscar as an 8-year-old. The article reported more information about Ramiro than about Oscar because prosecutors had succeeded in finding and questioning the older boy before helping him win asylum in Canada.

There was a recent snapshot of Ramiro as a military cadet, holding a rifle and wearing the uniform of the army that had slaughtered his family. The story mentioned the investigators' suspicion that the two boys, who both had light skin and green eyes, were brothers. Lopez Alonzo made the decision to take the boys. He called an aunt in Zacapa.

She told him she didn't know what to make of the allegations, except that they were false. She insisted that the lieutenant was Oscar's father, period. The story struck her as an attempt by leftists to smear the name of an honorable soldier. In the persistent ideological strife of Guatemala, that was plausible. Many families affiliated with the military and right-wing political parties felt that the left had distorted the narrative of the civil war.

They complained that Guatemalan and foreign critics exaggerated the abuses of the armed forces while playing down the violence by guerrillas.

Oscar's aunt convinced him that the allegations were too bizarre to be credible. He had never known anything about his mother.

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He had no real memories of the lieutenant. The boy grew up in a two-room house on an idyllic farm in the hot and dry region of Zacapa, where his family raised cows and grew tobacco. The family matriarch was Oscar's grandmother, Rosalina. She had taken charge of his upbringing after the death of Lt. Oscar considered her his mother. Rosalina was affectionate and strict.

Oscar always had chores. He milked the cows at 5 a. He loved life on the farm, riding horses, roaming the countryside. His aunts made sure he was clean and neat for school.

One of Oscar's uncles was a prominent local doctor. Two aunts were nurses. The family and their neighbors and friends idolized Oscar's father, the lieutenant, for his battlefield exploits and his generosity. He had helped pay for the education of his siblings.

He had brought fellow fighters from his mercenary days in Nicaragua to settle in Zacapa. Curiously, though, Oscar had shown no interest in following in the lieutenant's footsteps. His aunts urged him to go to military school, but he had an independent streak. He didn't like taking orders. Oscar got a vocational high school degree in accounting. It was hard to find work. After his grandmother died, he skirmished with relatives over an inheritance.

He decided to seek his fortune in the United States. So in lateOscar made his way north like so many fellow Guatemalans. He flew to Mexico and slipped illegally across the border into Texas.

After a brief stay in Arlington, Va. The suburb west of Boston had a growing community of Central Americans and Brazilians. He found a job in the produce section of a supermarket. The pay and benefits were solid, and nobody bothered him about his immigration status.

Oscar's new life soon consumed him. He reunited with Nidia, his teenage sweetheart, who had arrived from Guatemala. Inthey moved into a small duplex in a weathered residential complex. Nidia gave birth to two girls and a boy, smart and energetic kids who slid easily between English and Spanish. The family kept Oscar busy: He rose to assistant manager at the supermarket but lost the job in an immigration crackdown in He found new jobs as a supervisor: Oscar was polite and poised and spoke English well.

Some of the regulars at the Mexican burrito place that he managed even mistook him for the owner. Despite the precarious nature of life as an illegal immigrant, Oscar was healthy and putting food on the table. He considered himself a happy man. The newspaper article had stirred doubts. But he came from a part of the world where mysteries abounded, where allegations and suspicions outnumbered facts. As the years went on, he thought about the episode less and less. The legal action resulted in public disclosure of the list of suspects.

A few had died, but the rest were at large. And then help came from an unexpected quarter: Immigration and Customs Enforcement in Washington that tracks down war criminals. A compact Italian-American from Boston with a goatee, Longo, 39, had only two years on the job.

But he had experience persuading criminals to talk. He held a master's degree in psychology and had worked for eight years as a prison therapist. Longo's orders were to determine if he had taken part in the massacre and, if so, to build a case under U. It wasn't going to be a murder case. Nor could he be prosecuted in U.

Longo focused instead on U. If he had been in the army or participated in the Dos Erres attack, his statements would violate laws against lying to obtain citizenship. Longo wanted to approach the case as simply as possible.

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Thanks to the immigration amnesty, he became a legal resident. He had three grown children — one of them a U.

Marine and Iraq vet. Separately, agents in Houston caught another Dos Erres suspect: Alonzo, the squad's baker, who had taken 5-year-old Ramiro. Alonzo had been deported once before. ICE charged him with breaking U. Without direct evidence, such as a confession, they would not indict.

It was a long shot. Murderers tend to confess more readily on television than in real-life. Especially veteran commandos versed in stealth and psychological warfare. Longo planned carefully for the confrontation. He was dealing with a highly trained soldier who might own weapons. As permitted by law, the ICE team concocted a ruse. Then they would ask about Dos Erres. Wearing raid jackets, the agents went to his home in a modest, multiethnic subdivision with narrow streets.

The garage door was open when the agents cruised by, but closed when they came back. When the team knocked on his door, though, no one answered. The agents had their hands on their guns. She agreed to call her husband. He reacted like a hunted man. He was short and stolid, with close-cropped gray hair and a lined face. He wore puttering-around clothes: Soon his wife joined them. He admitted he had been a commando. He said he did not display military memorabilia in his house because his wife had heard of former soldiers attacked by Guatemalans with grudges against the military.

Longo had dealt with plenty of murderers in his career. Although calm and guarded, he seemed somewhat eager to talk. He's throwing out breadcrumbs, Longo thought. There was a massacre. The conversation eventually returned to the massacre. He told the story of Dos Erres. He described the slaughter at the well. He began to cry. He denied raping anyone. His wife listened morosely.

She told him to hold off, saying she wanted to create a clear record that the confession was voluntary. Tell him to come to your office tomorrow morning for a formal appointment, she said. Within weeks, he had agreed to plead guilty to concealing facts and willful misrepresentation on his immigration application.

Prosecutors pushed for the maximum sentence. At a hearing in a Florida courtroom, they called Ramiro Cristales, who had traveled from Canada, where he lived as a refugee. Longo expected Ramiro to be a shell of a man. Instead, the year-old Guatemalan impressed the agent with his courage and maturity. In his testimony, Ramiro described commandos storming into the house where he lived with his parents and six siblings, and beating and terrorizing the family. Though it is not clear how precise his memories are, Ramiro told the court he spent most of the massacre in the church with the women and children.

He said the soldiers threw his younger siblings in the well. District Judge William J. Zloch was disgusted by what he heard in court.

How many more heads have to be smashed in? How many more women need to be raped? How many more people shot? Agents in Orange County, Calif. Inthe U. He was found living illegally as a maintenance worker in the United States. Authorities deported him to Guatemala to stand trial. Federal investigators learned that Sosa, the sub-lieutenant who had allegedly thrown a grenade into the well in Dos Erres, was a U. Sosa moved to Canada, where he was jailed pending extradition for trial in California on charges of falsifying his U.

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Alonzo, Ramiro's abductor, pleaded guilty in Houston. He agreed to testify against Sosa, his former superior officer.

The Guatemalan military had been more responsive to requests from U. The atmosphere in Guatemala had changed. Fifteen years into the case, prosecutor Romero ordered a new round of arrests in Police were able to capture three of the commandos and Carias, the former local commander.

Investigators faced danger and hostility. A witness in another atrocity case was murdered. Military families in the Guatemala City neighborhoods where suspects lived threatened to lynch police who were hunting for war criminals. Prosecutors suspected that some of the fugitives were hiding on army bases or in areas dominated by the military.

During questioning in Guatemala City, a captured commando described the abduction of the two boys. The judge supervising the case ordered Romero to redouble her efforts to find Oscar. Years before, she had been thwarted by the resistance of Oscar's family. The newspaper story about her investigation had not helped. But once again, in MayRomero returned to Zacapa, where Oscar had been raised. Again she sat down with Oscar's uncle, the prominent doctor.

During her previous visit, he had accused her of slandering the lieutenant's honor with her questions about the boy. This time, the doctor was a bit more cooperative. He disclosed that Oscar was living in the United States and now had a family.

He said he did not know their phone number. Armed with that lead, investigators located a merchant who helped them identify Nidia and track down her family in a nearby town. The prosecutor interviewed Nidia's parents. They gave her Oscar's email address, which incorporated the word Cocorico2. Romero realized that Oscar used the same nickname as Lt. A few days later, after hearing about her visit, Oscar called Romero. She kept the conversation brief, not wanting to deliver a bombshell over the phone.

Then she sat down to compose an email. She struggled to find the best words to explain that his entire life had been based on a lie. Romero knew Oscar was an illegal immigrant. She imagined his existence far from home. She thought about the impact the email might have. How would he take the news? Would he need psychological counseling?

It had to be done. She began with the phrase: The prosecutor was claiming that he had lived a completely different life until the age of three. He found it hard to believe. He could summon no mental picture of Dos Erres.

The people he knew as blood relatives in Zacapa had treated him as a full-fledged member of the family. Then he thought back to the newspaper article about him and Ramiro from a decade before — the story that his relatives had dismissed as unthinkable. The doubts flooded back. Oscar called Romero and agreed to take a DNA test.

Last June 20, a Guatemalan human rights investigator named Fredy Peccerelli arrived in Framingham to collect the evidence that would determine Oscar's true identity once and for all. The two men hit it off. With his shaved head, weightlifter's physique and Bensonhurst accent, Peccerelli seemed more like an action hero than a scientist and human rights crusader. Born in Guatemala and raised in Brooklyn, N.

His private, internationally funded Guatemalan Forensic Anthropology Foundation supported state investigations of atrocities and high-profile crimes, exhumed remains at massacre sites and clandestine cemeteries, and performed DNA tests at a state-of-the-art lab behind high walls in Guatemala City. InPeccerelli's foundation had analyzed the Dos Erres remains recovered years earlier by the Argentine team.

The forensic investigators used sophisticated technology to take DNA from relatives of the victims and look for matches. When they met, Peccerelli tried to imagine what Oscar had gone through as a boy. Had he seen his entire family being killed? Peccerelli felt protective toward Oscar. The young man was wary at first. Peccerelli told him he knew what it was like to be an immigrant in the shadows. His father had been a lawyer in Guatemala, and when Peccerelli was a boy, the family had fled death threats by rushing to the United States.

Gradually, Oscar opened up, telling the story of his own clandestine odyssey from Guatemala. After the Guatemalan visitors took the DNA sample, Oscar and Nidia cooked a big meal for Peccerelli and a fellow investigator in the kitchen of their townhouse.

Peccerelli had spent years piecing together the secrets of shattered skeletons. Now, for the first time, he was face to face with living evidence. He had a rare chance to ask important questions. In past cases, children who had been abducted by soldiers had been raised abusively, like Ramiro, forced to sleep in barns and work 20 hours a day.

Peccerelli was fascinated to hear about a firsthand experience. He had the impression that Oscar was deeply curious, but also ambivalent. At some level, he thought, Oscar hoped the whole thing might not be true. He explained that the tests had conclusively ruled out one of the prosecution's theories: He said the words he still found hard to believe: He had escaped the massacre because he was working in the fields in another town.

For nearly 30 years, he thought the commandos had killed his wife and all nine of his children. Oscar was his youngest son: Oscar saw his father appear on the computer screen. His reaction was more sad and bewildered than joyful. The group gathered around to comfort him. He downed a shot of liquor to clear his head.

The father peered in disbelief at the screen. He tried to compare the face of the grown man two thousand miles away with the chubby toddler he remembered. Oscar did not know what to say. Oscar said he did remember that. Mainly, they spent a lot of time looking at each other.

Father and son spoke again by phone and Skype. Soon they were talking every day, getting to know each other, filling in three missing decades. The lieutenant's family was equally stunned. But there was no apparent rancor. In photos the family sent to Oscar, his father looked years younger. After the massacre, he holed up in a shack in the jungle. He became an alcoholic.

He drank as much as a person can. He did a lot of thinking. Though talkative about some topics — work, soccer, life as an illegal immigrant — it took effort for him to open up about the miracles and traumas of the past year. The one person he found easy to talk to was Ramiro, the other abducted survivor. They had long phone conversations.

They asked unanswerable questions. Why did the soldiers spare them? What kind of man slaughters families, yet decides to save and raise a boy? During the dictatorships in Argentina and El Salvador, abduction of infants from leftist families became an organized and sometimes profitable racket. On an ideological level, the kidnappers wanted to eliminate a generation of future subversives by giving or selling them to right-wing families. In Guatemala, such crimes were more haphazard and opportunistic.

Government investigators estimated the military had kidnapped more than children during the civil war. In a poor and rural society, Ramiro's story of forced labor and abuse tended to be typical. Oscar's experience stood out because he was treated with care and affection. Investigators think the lieutenant brought him home to please his mother because of her complaints about not him not giving her grandchildren. Oscar now understood that his "adoptive" father oversaw the murders of his mother and siblings.

He read about the medieval horrors of the massacre. He realized that a stark photo in the lieutenant's album — of soldiers posing with an apparent prisoner tethered to a rope — perhaps showed a scene like the "guide" who was tortured and killed after Dos Erres.

Oscar sat at his kitchen table, examining the photo album. He returned, quietly and adamantly, to two facts. The lieutenant saved him. And in the army they tell you things, and you have to do things.

Especially in times of war. So should I be more patient with them? Should I show them a forbearance that I wouldn't show to most people? It's an interesting philosophical question. Should they be given more leeway for their behavior? They are certainly less able to think clearly and logically, and it's not their fault that they were born with subpar brains. So should we hold them less responsible for their behavior?

The NY Times will occasionally inveigh against the death penalty being applied to some murderer whose IQ has been tested at 65 or 70 70 is considered the cutoff point for retardation. The idea is that the murderer didn't fully comprehend what he was doing. But let's take this argument a step further. What if a murderer has an IQ of 85?

Does that make him a little less responsible for his actions, than, say, a fellow with an IQ of ? And does someone with an IQ of bear more responsibility for a crime than, say, someone with an IQ of would have?

The former would theoretically be able foresee the consequences of his crime and the harm he would cause better than the latter. Or how about an elderly person whose faculties are not what they once were?

Does that render him less responsible for his bad behavior? There are those who feel that women are less logical than men. Are women therefore less guilty of their crimes than men are? Should we give women a pass for being more emotional than men, especially when it's their time of month?

In fact, most people do, but should we? At yet another level, sociopaths can't help but be sociopaths. They turn out that way because they had no close bond with a nurturer at a very young age, or, more rarely, for organic frontal lobe-related reasons -- neither of which they are responsible for.

And since no sociopath has ever been "cured," they have no choice but to be without conscience. Does this make them somehow less culpable for their conscienceless behavior? How long before we start seeing sociopath support groups? He's a sociopath, that's the way he's programmed. You have to understand, alcoholism is a disease, not a crime.

But, at the same time, there's no question that a sociopath can't help but be the way he is. Any more than an Aspie can help be unreasonable and rigid, or a moron can help being stupid.

Adam Lanza, the Newtown shooter, had Aspergers Syndrome, which he couldn't help.