I'm opening up cross play, I've been playing against Dan, my colleague gets in New York times. Cats played another move. Ugh, she played stoop for 36 points. I've got a Z, which is 10 points.
I'm guessing Tanga is not a word, let's see. Tanga is a word. Oh. Dan played his last turn, let's see who won.
It's so close, but I did win. New York Times game subscribers get full access to cross play, our first two player word game. Subscribe now for a special offer on all of our games. My family, if I have to give it an adjective, is elastic.
45 years ago, my parents, my little brother and I, came over to this country from the Soviet Union, extending the family across continents. Over the decades, the family, my father really, stretched to absorb spouses in laws even though they spoke a different language, children both biological and adopted, ex-spouse to switch out to stick around, and eventually grandchildren. Over those same decades as in any family, people meet bad decisions, said things they hoped no one would remember, got mad at each other, got crudges, came around, and the family stretched as needed. And then it snapped.
Someone did something that bad, that shocking. That person was my cousin Alan. He and his mother, my father's sister, Diana, came to the US from Moscow in 1990 when Alan was 15. They stayed with my parents and brother for almost a year.
By the time they arrived, I no longer lived at home, so I didn't have much relationship with them. I never really wanted to, because they didn't like my aunt. As Alan grew up, I realized even from a distance that I didn't particularly like him either. Alan is a clown, a blow-hard, a pompous ass.
He would call himself an entrepreneur. He started his first business in college. He hired students to go to write papers for other, wealthier students. He went to law school and got fired from his first job.
He later told me this was because his fine legal mind made the other lawyers insecure. Then he lived in Russia, Ukraine, Zimbabwe, working in series and increasing shady jobs. In Africa, he was involved with diamonds and worked with an Israeli company that provided security for mining. If someone had set out to write an unlikable international huckster character, they couldn't have laid it on and he's thicker.
Alan married as a bobbin woman, working in the family was the shipment that countries buted queen. They're two kids. Last I knew all of them, including my Aunt Lana, were living in Moscow. And then, in the summer of 2019, everyone on the American side of the family got a Facebook message from Alan, informing us that he had arrived in the US with his five-year-old son, who I'm going to call O.
Alan wrote, they'd come for O to quote, commence his studies. I repeat, O was five. His wife he wrote was still in Russia with their baby daughter. They had separated.
Alan added ominously, quote, things are less than amicable. She might make attempts to contact you with the request of a tremendous amount of O's interest, unquote. I immediately texted my brother Keith, who was closer to Alan. So our cousin had kidnapped his son and abandoned his daughter?
The answer would appear to be maybe, my brother responded. Just a note, this isn't the big shocking thing I was talking about earlier, but we're still a few years away from that. I called my dad. He told me that Alan had just shown up at his house and kept caught without warning.
His five-year-old son was with him, as with Lana, my dad's sister. I asked my dad if we should do something about the maybe kidnapping, like, I don't know, contact the FBI. This was the wrong thing to say to a guy who grew up in the Soviet Union. He would never call the authorities on his sister Nafia.
What he did do was post a picture of Owen Facebook, perhaps a message in a bottle for O's mom. Sure enough, my father immediately heard from her. Her name is Priscilla. Priscilla wrote to my dad describing the ordeal she was enduring.
She said she had gone on a short business trip to Zimbabwe, and when she returned, she discovered that Alan had left with her son. It had been about a week, and only now, from seeing my father's Facebook post, was she learning anything more. Priscilla wrote, I beg you please to help me get my son back, or to at least speak to him. Please do not tell them I have written to you.
If you're unable to help me, then just ignore my message. I received a long, long glass of from Priscilla, but I just ignored it. My father couldn't be quite literal. So what did you think was going on then?
Did you think she was lying? Honestly, I didn't pay much attention. I don't know. I understood that something was wrong with their marriage, but beyond that no.
Like I said, my family is elastic. To keep it that way, my father preferred not to know too much. And it wasn't just him. My three younger brothers, their partners, my own grown son, assorted friends of my father's.
Everyone acted like, hey, sometimes men and their mothers just change continents with a five-year-old into. And here's the thing. They were fun. My father loves having family around.
The whole reason he lives in a big house in Cape Cod is so that his four kids and five grandkids gather around him. But the house has seen better days, and all the kids and some of the grandkids have busy lives. Alan and Anna and Ozarrival in the scene breathe new life into the house and the family. We'd come up with ridiculous activities like, let's write the guests and family anthem, and it was always taking black and white pictures that made us all look like more stylish versions of ourselves.
Alan was always driving up in his Tesla with new gadgets and tales of new business ventures. I found him ridiculous, but my youngest brothers and my oldest son hung in every word. Alan would sit on the couch with these very young men and scroll through pictures of women and Tinder. They all look like models.
Alan was bald as a billiard ball and had a giant protruding belly. He claimed that he had matched with all of those women. After a while, Alan was eager to talk about why he had taken out. He claimed that Priscilla was a bad mother.
She parted all the time. She did drugs. She cheated on Alan. To me, these sounded like good reasons to get a divorce, not to take your child from his mother.
But then I had her own complaints. She said Priscilla didn't read to her child, and perhaps, if worse, didn't read books herself. The only book she kept on the house, Leanna claimed, was the Bible. I thought, wait, this was why Leanna and Alan took Priscilla's son away?
There are a few things that I think justify separating him from his parent, but Leanna and Alan didn't seem to think that much justification was required. I couldn't stop thinking about what Priscilla must be going through. Without telling anyone in the family, I decided to reach out to her. I had met her only a couple of times and barely had a sense of her.
I knew that she worked in fashion. I knew from Leanna that Priscilla's father owned a huge farm in Zimbabwe, and I knew that she would have no reason to trust me. I wasn't sure she'd respond. I texted her that I knew only Leanna and Alan's side of the story.
Priscilla rode back right away. She was stuck in Russia. Her daughter, Kamal Kole L, had been born via surrogacy because Priscilla was unable to carry a pregnancy to turn. The baby was eight months old, but Priscilla still didn't have a birth certificate for her, which meant that they couldn't leave the country.
We traded short messages back and forth. Our change was friendly, but guarded. I didn't want to overstep, and I think Priscilla tried to say only what needed to be said. It was enough for me to sense that she was in anguish, and I was horrified.
How could this woman's child just be taken away from her? How could my family just sit by, and what was going to happen to own now? Priscilla told me that the Russian police would not help her. The Zimbabwean embassy said that she could file a petition under the Hague Convention, a treaty that specifically addressed the situation when one parent abducts a child and takes them to another country.
But Priscilla needed legal help in the US. I could be useful here. I called a friend who connected Priscilla with a person in the Justice Department, who specializes in these kinds of cases. Priscilla also needed Leanna, Alan, and O's physical address in the States, so she could begin the Hague process.
This I could definitely help with. I knew that they'd left Cape Cod for New York, which is where I live. I invited my aunt, cousin, and nephew over for dinner. Alan was away from business, so Leanna arrived with O, who got conscripted into a human pyramid by the young people of my household.
As I slid the church's stakes into the oven, I asked Leanna the question, all New York City parents ask, all other New York City parents, where will O go to school? It was about to turn six. Leanna said that she had no idea how school's even functioned in the city. Do you let me explain this to you, I said, and took out my phone.
What is your address? Let's see what district that is. Bingo. I had their address.
I sent it to Priscilla. Some weeks later, apparently on the mark, they moved to Massachusetts. I figured out that address, too. I was a double agent now.
I tracked Leanna, Alan, and O through their Facebook posts, messages to the family chat, and occasional weekends at my father's house on Cape Cod. When they moved to New House, I left Priscilla now. If I had news about O, I texted Priscilla. Sometimes she just asked for reassurance that he was alright.
From all the men in my family, my father, my three brothers, and my son, I hid the fact that I was in touch with Priscilla. I thought they'd see what I was doing at the slow-up, and might grab me out to Alan, my daughter now. It was a little bit exciting, but it also gave me an excuse for maintaining peace with my newly enlarged family. But the more I hang out with them, the more I just hang out with them.
O was growing, Alan and Leanna were building a life. I watched. Sometimes I caught myself thinking that it was a pretty good life. Alan, Leanna, and O moved into a farmhouse in Concord, Massachusetts.
Leanna furnished it silously. They seemed to spend most of their time actively raising O. They enrolled him in jurisool, violin lessons, fencing, horseback riding, and I'm sure I'm still forgetting something. They dressed O like a tiny little gentleman, complete with brogues and fedora hats, and by some sort of miracle the result wasn't annoying.
What was it delight, curious, entertaining without being overbearing, and unfailing the polite? He seemed happy. Whatever damage being separated from his mother had done, I couldn't see it. What I could see was that he was doted on and thriving.
To put it another way, and it wasn't easy for me to admit that I was seeing this, Alan seemed like a great dad, kind, attentive, devoted, and fun. Two years passed like this, eventually Priscilla and Elle, who was now a toddler, made it to the United States. I had a message with Priscilla in over a year, but I heard from my father that Priscilla's claim filed under the hate convention was going to be heard in Feddle Gordon-Boslin. The case would probably drive on for a while, but I assumed that Priscilla would now be able to see her son.
And then there it was, on social media. Priscilla posted a picture of herself embracing, oh, I liked the picture. I figured my job was done. My time as a double agent, long over.
About four months later, Alan was arrested for kidnapping, oh, not for the time he took over from Russia. This was new. That's after the break. Some songs that I've written, I started on a piano that happened with All In With A Christmas Is You.
If you couldn't tell, that is Mariah Carey. I'm John Carimonica, one of the critics behind The New York Times' 30 Greatest Living American Songwriters Project. We interviewed some of the songwriters on our list, including Taylor Swift, who hasn't sat for a video like this in a long time. These are not ordinary conversations.
You're going to watch these videos and learn about intimate approaches to craft in ways that you rarely have access to. My mom had got me this notebook and I was just writing it really small because I didn't want anybody to read what I was writing. Okay, Jay Z's teenage notebooks. I need to see those.
Watch all the video interviews for free and check out the entire 30 Greatest Living American Songwriters Project at nytimes.com slash 30 Greatest or in the app. And let us know if you would read with our picks. I bet you won't. Alan was arrested in Montreal at the airport when he, Leanne and O were waiting to board a flight to London without, apparently, for so his knowledge.
This time Alan went to jail. But no, this arrest and what Alan did to get himself arrested weren't the things to shock my family. We didn't exactly act like Alan's arrest was normal. We acted like it was absurd.
I entertained my friends with stories of my serial kidnapper cousin. Then I kept the family updated with over-gramatic notes on the Facebook family chat. And at least one video from Canada in which Alan, wearing a striped uniform, sings her Russian prison song. It looked like a cartoon.
Alan spent a couple of weeks in Canadian detention, then another few weeks in jail in upstate New York, and was finally released on his own recognizance to await trial in Massachusetts. Oh, was now living with Priscilla. Alan got out of jail in February 2022. A couple of months after that, he sent out a miss of in the family chat, as self-important as the one that began this whole story.
This time he was telling us that he and Priscilla had resolved their battle. Which actually turned out to be true. They would now have shared custody of both kids. Alan said he was very pleased.
I thought my god. Did you have to go through all this, of sconding with your son twice, keeping him separated from his mother for more than two years, just to arrive at a standard 5050 custody agreement? Yes, child support and shared custody is the boring end of this crazy story. I felt a little relieved and a little dumb.
Like maybe I bought too fully into other people's drama. Kidnapping charges against Alan were pending. They would later be dropped. And still, Priscilla was able to reach a peace agreement with Alan.
After all he'd apparently put her and their son through. Well, maybe this was just the way they did things. With extreme flair. Then, yeah, kind of exotic parts started.
Then it happened. The thing. The bomb that went off in the middle of my family. So the day before, Alan called me and said that he promised his kids to take them to Camp Camp.
July 2022. Under the new custody arrangement, it was Alan's weekend with the kids. He asked my dad, hey, do you mind if me, my mom and the kids camp out in your backyard on Cape Cod? I said, of course.
So they came. They brought some huge, huge tent. They never saw such a tent. Before with a lot of furniture, lights and devices.
Solar charges, rugs, two full mattresses, a treasure trunk with treasures, I guess. It was very Alan. Awesome, spectacular, ridiculous. The later occurred to me that this time, at least, there may have been a point to this.
He wanted everyone to remember his camping trip to my father's backyard. Because of the summer, my father's house was full. Two of my younger brothers, one of them with his girlfriend, were there. Everyone had a nice dinner together and then went to bed, some people in the house, and Alan, Liana and the kids in the tent.
And then, around 6th the next morning, the dog, Alton, started going nuts. Someone was banging on the front door. So I opened the door a bit because not to let Alton out. Also, I didn't put my trousers on yet.
And the guy, the policeman said, we are state police. Could you step out with your phone? My dad is surprised, but he's not panicking. He goes to get his pants and his phone.
But by that time, because of all this noise and commotion and Alton's barking, Alosia woke up. Alosia is my cousin's Russian diminutive. Alan. And he came to the house to see what is going on.
And police figured out that they are looking for human, not for me. If the Aisians go around the house, bang indoors, and make everyone sit down on the couch in the living room. No one understands what's going on. But soon, through the picture windows that look out on the backyard, they see two male FBI agents take Alan away and handcuffs.
Then a female agent escorts the kids to another car. They all drive off. State troopers follow. Alan leaves too.
And did you know what, once everybody left, did you have an idea of what he had been arrested for? Not immediately, but then I went from Leana about that. She was not really lost, but the only thing she knew that was in this paper they gave what was in the paper. Well, that he's arrested for, I don't remember.
But murder for hire was there, yes. And did you have any idea who he might have hired somebody to murder? It didn't take long. It was Priscilla.
Alan seemed, had hired someone to kill Priscilla. The question was if it was true or not, that's another story. Some of us took the news in faster than others. Today after Alan's arrest, my brother Keith and I had a fight over the justice department press release, which identified the target only as P.C.
I was saying that it was obviously Priscilla, whose last name begins with a C. He was saying that it was obviously not Priscilla. Leana kept telling everyone that Alan had been set up by business rivals or Russian agents or the FBI or someone. But over the course of a few days at Sanken, my cousin had been caught hiring someone to murder his ex-wife, the mother of his children.
This was when it felt like we snapped. I certainly snapped. I was shocked at how shocked I was. It's not that I felt bad for Alan or Leana, it's just how does something like this happen?
How had it happened right here in my family in between our silly dinners and chess games and kids' birthday parties? In theory, I knew that this kind of thing could happen in any family. Anyone's first cousin could be plotting murder. Upstanding citizens are always turning out to be secret criminals.
And I wouldn't even call Alan an upstanding citizen. But it's one thing to know and another thing to understand. I'm a reporter. At some of the hardest times in my life, like when I faced a diometrical diagnosis, I put on my reporter's hat and asked everyone a lot of questions.
It has allowed me to wrap my mind around nothing couple things before. Alan was in jail, awaiting trial, so my project had to begin with Priscilla, who was, thankfully, alive. But she told me it was so much worse than what I thought I knew. That's next time.
From serial productions in the New York Times, I'm M. Gessen, and this is the idiot. The idiot was reported and written by me, M. Gessen, and produced by Daniel Guimette, with Anne Beba Zentte, and Luca Crainet of Liberty Bellibas Studios.
Our editor is Julie Snyder, additional editing by Ira Glass, and Sarah Kannick. Research and fact-checking by Ben Feynman and Marisa Robertson-Texter. Original scored by Alison Leighton Brown, additional music from Dan Powell, and Mary and Lozano. The show was mixed by Phoebe Wang, with additional mixing by Catherine Anderson.
Additional productions by Phoebe Bennett. At serial productions, N. Day Chubu is our supervising producer, Mac Miller's our associate producer, Video Production by Sean Devaney, Art Direction from Kelly Del. Art by John Perm, credits music by Bob Dylan.
At The New York Times, our standards editor is Susan Westling, legal review by Alanine Sumer, Dana Green, Jackson Bush, and Tintai. Our senior operations manager is Elizabeth Davis-Moor, and Sam Dolanick is Deputy Managing Editor of The New York Times. To find out about our upcoming shows and more about this show, sign up for the newsletter at nytimes.com. The idiot is a production of serial productions and The New York Times.