Читать книгу Still Standing - Anaité Alvarado - Страница 11

Pray for Me

A new year began, and with it came so much uncertainty that I had a very difficult time welcoming it properly. As much as we all tried to keep things as normal as possible, nothing was normal. My brother-in-law’s invitation to spend New Year’s Eve at my mother-in-law’s beach house was a welcome one. I can imagine they were trying to let me know that they loved my children and me, and that, in spite of everything, and especially since my husband was nowhere to be found, they were still there for us. Furthermore, regardless of the difficult circumstances, we managed to have a wonderful time.

The teakwood beach house sits on concrete stilts, less than one hundred feet from the Pacific Ocean. It is small and simple compared to the many mansions that have been built lately on the beaches of Monterrico, Guatemala, but it has always been a place where we are in touch with nature, can spend quality time with one another, and have made so many fantastic family memories. From the front of the house, one enjoys a constant fresh breeze and an amazing ocean view. From the back, early in the morning or on extremely clear days, several majestic volcanoes and mountain ranges are visible in the horizon. In addition, the house is nestled close to a turtle sanctuary, and at this time of the year the baby turtles, who have been saved from constant poaching, are born and set free. We all loved visiting the Tortugario and being a part of the turtle release effort. This time of year is also the season for whale and dolphin migrations, and we’ve been lucky enough to have witnessed them swimming along the coast on several occasions—a truly life-changing experience.

Following our usual tradition, we welcomed the New Year on the beach, roasting marshmallows by the campfire and waiting for the midnight fireworks to light up the entire coastline. When the clock struck twelve, we toasted, hugged, and wished one another a wonderful New Year. This is what we have often done during the past twelve years, since the house was built with so much effort, so much promise, and so much love. As we embraced and welcomed 2016, I felt grateful that my husband’s family had opened their home and invited my children and me to celebrate together one more time.

After our warm family holiday, we returned home and reality was upon us once again. I did my best to keep calm and stay positive regarding my fast-approaching hearing date—easier said than done.

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January 5 proved to be a chilly day, around 65 degrees Fahrenheit, not terribly cold, but cold enough for Guatemala. What do you wear to a courthouse in a third world country when you have been accused of embezzlement, fraud, and criminal association; when the judge you are about to face is new on the case and will hear the most awful charges against you; when the Attorney General’s Office and a powerful well-known law firm insists you are guilty? I decided to stay true to myself and chose a pair of black pants, a pink cashmere sweater set, and black boots. I figured I would be elegant enough to be respectful of the court, warm enough if needed, comfortable, and true to my usual attire. The last thing I wanted was to feel like I was a fake.

My father, my mother, and I arrived at the courthouse on time. Eventually my case number and name were called and Miranda and I went into the now familiar courtroom. We all sat in our usual spots, except for Juan Pablo Olyslager Muñoz, who was courageous enough to give the Attorney General’s Office a false statement against me, but would never again show up at court. That’s right, from that moment forward, he was a no-show; however, that didn’t stop the proceedings from moving on as usual. The attorneys all greeted one another, following professional protocol, but their familiarity and niceties felt insulting to me. They were all there, being paid to do their jobs, while my life was hanging in the balance. As we settled into our seats, Julia Marisol Rivera Aguilar, the new judge assigned to my case, walked in. And so began the hearing.

The attorneys did their thing, maligning my name and character, while the judge listened, and once again, the opposing parties requested that the judge send me to preventive detention. Two separate judges had denied their request so far. The judge then proceeded to speak, analyzing the case for what to me felt like an eternity, until I suddenly heard her say, “I therefore have decided that the accused should be sent to preventive custody.” What? Her words took Miranda and me by surprise. He glanced over at me, speechless. However, as shocked as I was by her decision, it seemed in line with everything I had witnessed and experienced in the courthouse so far, a courthouse where I had yet to see any reason, any truth, or any justice.

Nevertheless, at that moment I couldn’t help thinking, How can this be? How could this new judge, a woman and an officer sworn to uphold the laws of the land and protect citizens from injustice, so blatantly violate my rights? Does the law not clearly state that preventive custody is a last resort, that all people are innocent until proven guilty? What could have possibly led her to believe, with such certainly, that I was guilty of anything? Where was the proof? Had she not noticed that, three months earlier, a judge had sent me home, that I had complied with everything the court had asked of me, that I had remained in the country, facing the system head-on, trying to still believe in it? Wasn’t that evidence enough that I wasn’t a flight risk?

As my mind raced through all these thoughts, the remaining time in the courtroom was a blur. All I remember was that I was led out of the courtroom and into a small office right next door, followed by my parents, who had been waiting outside and had just heard the news from Miranda. There was a woman working at her desk in this office, who let my mother and me sit on the sofa and told me to stay there until they came to get me.

I don’t remember crying; I simply dove into full survival mode, trying to understand and envision what the judge’s statement meant for my life. I removed my jewelry, put it in my purse, and gave it to my mother. I grabbed my cell phone and somehow had the clarity of mind to write a Facebook post. I knew it was the only tool I had to let the world know what these people were doing to me. The post read: “I am on my way to Santa Teresita courtesy of Mayora & Mayora’s legal strategy against Roberto Montano [my husband]. Pray for me. Take care of my children.”

My friend Melly immediately called and asked, “What is going on?” I told her I was being taken to El Centro de Detención Preventiva para Mujeres Santa Teresa. She was as flabbergasted as we all were and quickly replied, “Make your post public so that we can all share it.” I did and less than thirty minutes later, I added one last post: “Friends—I need you to tell my story to those who will listen. Many of you are friends, clients, and you can exercise some form of pressure at Mayora. Thank you for believing in me.” And that is how the people who knew me, loved me, and believed in me began an incredible sixty-five-day quest and movement to free me from prison.

Prison. I was going to prison. I couldn’t completely wrap my head around this predicament, but had no choice but to be strong. My parents and I stayed in that little adjacent office with the friendly court worker for a couple of hours. We tried to get me some more appropriate prison clothes (there are no uniforms for inmates in Guatemalan prisons), but there was not enough time. Eventually, I was handcuffed and taken down to the carceleta one more time. However, this time I was to go straight to jail. No going home, no saying goodbye to my children or having the chance to explain my sudden absence to them, nothing. A single sentence from a judge who had examined no evidence against me and I went from being a free woman to a prison inmate.

I spent the rest of the day and well into the night in that holding cell waiting for the last of the inmates to finish their legal proceedings, so we could all be herded into the prison truck and hauled off to jail. By then, my world had reached unfathomable depths, and my life as I knew it was being deleted from my mind, seemingly making room for whatever I was to confront next. I focused on this new reality, on this new circumstance. Little Miss Planner was now being forced to improvise. Only time would tell how successful I would be.