Читать книгу Still Standing - Anaité Alvarado - Страница 7

A Warrant for My Arrest

The intercom rang at 6:05 a.m., like every other weekday morning. It was the security guard at the first gate of our neighborhood complex, letting us know that my children’s school bus was on its way to my home. And like every other weekday morning, I opened my front door to send them off, only this time I was surprised by three police cars waiting outside. After the bus drove up to my house, I managed to say goodbye to my children and wish them a wonderful day. Then I stood there, watching the bus speed away, as I waited for the officers to approach me.

“Good morning,” said one of the officers. “We have a warrant to search your home.”

I wasn’t scared or surprised. Given the circumstances, my first thought was, Here we go. They are about to turn my home upside down!

Six or seven officers walked into my home, but they did not seem to touch or move anything. I entered my study and compliantly opened the only place in my house where I kept documents under lock and key. And since I tend to suffer from a sort of compulsion to over-organize, all my personal documents were in plain sight, in alphabetical order, and organized by size or color. From the binder clearly labeled “Banks,” they took an old folder that read “Green Millennium Precious Woods,” which contained a document that stated that I had been the first investor to believe in my husband years before. What had once been a proud moment in our lives, would now be used as evidence against me.

The officers were courteous, respectful, and well-mannered. Among them was a young man dressed in plainclothes who asked me about my husband, his whereabouts, and his phone number.

“I don’t know where he is,” I replied politely. “I don’t know where he lives, and I am not going to give you his phone number because, as civil as we all seem to be right now, you are my enemy.”

“We have a warrant for his arrest,” explained the officer calmly, and seemingly embarrassed, he added, “and we have a warrant for your arrest too.”

In that instant, still in my nightgown, surrounded by strangers with guns and warrants, I realized that my husband’s problems, which I had so vehemently tried to separate from my children and myself, were now closer and more destructive than ever before.

“I’m not sure I understand. Could you please explain what this means?”

He patiently explained that I would have to accompany them to the Torre de Tribunales, Guatemala City’s courthouse, where I would be brought before a judge to make my statement. The arrest warrants he flashed before my eyes included three names—my husband and his accountant were being charged with money laundering, fraud, and criminal association. Under my name, I only read “criminal association.” Little did I know I was on the cusp of a crash course in legal terminology.

As I continued to read the warrants, I also noticed that the officers would be going to a house where my husband once lived with his first wife. Fortunately, she and her children no longer resided there, but I couldn’t help thinking about the family who now lived there and whose home would soon be invaded by officers while they were flooded with questions.

When I looked up from the documents, the officer suggested that I eat some breakfast because it was uncertain when I would eat again. How could I eat? My stomach was in knots, but I remained calm.

“Would it be OK if I took a shower and got dressed instead?” I asked.

“Well, that’s certainly not normal procedure, but yes, go ahead,” he replied, and stood back filling out forms while a female agent, Delmi, was assigned to escort me, becoming my shadow for the rest of the morning.

Delmi and I went up to my bedroom on the second floor. She waited patiently and respectfully while I showered, got dressed, and prepared for the unknown. I grabbed a handbag from my closet and began filling it with the basics. Just as I was about to place my cell phone inside, I decided to ask Delmi what she suggested I do about my purse.

“Don’t bring anything other than your ID,” she said immediately, and explained that everything else would be confiscated when I entered the building.

Still in shock, I followed her advice, leaving my bag behind and taking only my ID. Before leaving my bedroom, I asked Delmi if I could make a few phone calls. She kindly agreed, so I began the slew of calls to attempt to explain my fate that day, one that I did not yet understand completely.

I called my mother, who immediately began to scream, painfully, “No, mija, no, no, no!” Somehow, I sheltered myself from any despair and remained as practical as possible given the circumstances.

My next call was to my employer. I was scheduled to meet my colleague Carlos that morning because we had planned to take several cars filled with artwork to Antigua, Guatemala. We were working on the exhibition phase of a beautiful art project that would soon culminate in an auction to benefit a foundation for children with cancer. All I could say to him was that I would not be able to meet him at 8 a.m. as planned, that I could not explain any further, and that the situation was out of my control.

I then called my father to let him know what was going on and he sprang into action. The only commitment I was unable to cancel that day was with my friend Steve, whom I was to meet for lunch in Antigua after delivering the artwork to Casa Santo Domingo Hotel.

When all was said and done, I walked out of my bedroom with Delmi by my side, wearing a pair of black jeans, a white tank top, a light black-and-white scarf, black flats, and a black sweater over my shoulders. I placed my ID, lip balm, some mints, and a small compact in my pockets, and said goodbye to my housekeeper, Olga. As we left my home, I once again saw the three police cars, which I now realized were pickup trucks, as well as fourteen agents waiting outside. Delmi explained to me that the proper procedure was to handcuff me then, but that she would spare me for now and do so as soon as we arrived at the courthouse.

They decided I should travel inside the last truck. The other two trucks would continue their journey to search for my husband and his accountant. Two agents got in the front seat, while Delmi and I climbed into the back, careful not to step on the ten pineapples that were on the floor. The rest of the officers took their places in the flatbed. I will never forget the gardeners’ and guard’s astonished faces as they watched us speed by, knowing me well from my neighborhood walks and our daily greetings. Those were the last familiar faces I would see for the next few hours.

—

I had never been to the courthouse before and had never thought this was how my first visit would happen. I had also never imagined that it would become a familiar place to me.

The pickup truck entered a guarded side street and parked at the end of the road, near the underground parking lot entrance. Delmi handcuffed me and we walked to the main gate, where cars would normally enter the building. There were two guards at a tiny table who asked for my ID and I formally entered the courthouse as an arrestee. They confiscated my compact, but let me keep my lip balm and mints.

We walked down the ramp toward the building’s basement level and passed the male inmate holding cells. I had imagined they’d get rowdy every time a woman went by, but the noise, the whistling, and the remarks were truly deafening. I noticed what felt like an endless blur of inmates and police officers, but I felt protected by Delmi, who never left my side. And, although police in Guatemala aren’t usually regarded as gentlemen, all the agents I had contact with that day behaved professionally.

After waiting for some paperwork to be cleared, I was taken to the second floor, to the Fourth Court of First Instance, or trial court, where my hearing would be held. And lo and behold, among the strangers, I recognized a face from my world. It was David, my dear friend Kali’s husband. As we approached him, I finally burst into tears . . . the first tears I had shed all morning. I am not sure if I cried out of fear or sheer gratefulness that he was there, all I know is that there are moments in one’s life that one never forgets, and this was just the first of many that occurred that day.

David and I sat together in some broken-down chairs and chatted for a bit, as I let my situation sink in. Then, when he got up to say hello to an attorney friend of his, a TV reporter suddenly headed straight toward me. Without even saying good morning, he asked, “Anaité?”

I shook my head and simply responded, “No.” When the reporter left to make a phone call, I quickly got up, told David what had just happened, and then walked over and stood right next to the reporter. I knew he was from Channel 7 because the microphone in his hand said so. When he realized that I was very close to him, he asked me if I had been apprehended that day.

“And who are you and why are you interested in knowing?” I asked in response.

“I’m from Channel 7 and we interview everyone here.”

By now, the cameraman was busy trying to set up his tripod and camera to film me, but I remained with my back to him, continuously shifting to avoid the camera lens each time he moved his gear to get me on screen.

For the first time, I began to wonder if everything that was happening that day was more than just a terrible misunderstanding. Could someone be targeting me deliberately? I told Delmi that I was scared, that the reporter referred to me by name, and that I would appreciate it if she could take me to the restroom. She immediately asked her superior for permission and we left.

Once in the safety of the women’s restroom four floors down, I took a deep breath and turned my attention to Delmi for a minute; I needed some small talk to calm my nerves and I was curious about the woman before me, assigned to guard my every step.

“Did you always want to be a police officer?” I asked.

She smiled and said, “No. I’ve been on the force for a year now, but I had never touched a weapon before this, not even a toy gun. I actually graduated from college with a degree in business administration, but after unsuccessfully looking for work for more than a year, I came across this opportunity and took it.” Little did I know this would be the first of many more stories I would encounter in the following year . . . stories that would teach me that life is never simply black or white, right or wrong, as I had believed for most of my life.

By the time we returned to the second floor, the reporter and his cameraman were gone. I later learned that his inquiry had not been personal and he didn’t have a specific interest in my case. Reporters simply make it their job to know who has been arrested and try to get an interview at the courthouse on a daily basis.

In the meantime, my father, my brother Rodrigo, and other loved ones had been frantically trying to figure out what was going on. They were contacting attorneys and gathering any information they could get their hands on, but for some very unusual reason, there was nothing on my case in the system yet.

David had gone down to meet my father and brother, who were already in the building trying to find my case number. I then remembered that I had a copy of the arrest warrants with me. I read through them and found the number. But how could I contact them when I had no cell phone? Luckily, a tall agent, who seemed to be of much higher rank than the others, offered me his cell phone to call my father. “But do it quickly, because this is not allowed and there are cameras everywhere,” he said.

When I got my father on the phone, I quickly gave him my case number, and he was finally able to find out what was going on that day.

I honestly don’t remember the exact order of events after this, it was an emotional and stressful whirlwind, but I do recall that at some point we were informed that my hearing would take place the next day, which basically meant, to my dismay, that I would be spending the rest of the day and that night locked up in the women’s carceleta, a communal holding cell located inside the courthouse’s underground parking lot. That’s where the authorities keep the newly apprehended people who arrive daily, and where they hold inmates that come from prisons to attend their hearings at the courthouse each day. The only people who spend the night in the carceleta are those whose hearing is scheduled for the next day. The law states that everyone has the right to be heard within twenty-four hours of their arrest, but this is not always the case.

Delmi and I went down the stairs to the lobby, where I was able to speak to David, my father, and my brother. I handed them my belt and scarf. My father gave me his jacket. We said goodbye and I continued descending in what felt like a downward spiral into hell.

The women’s carceleta is located beyond the view of the men’s, around the corner, next to a ramp that descends to the subbasement. The communal holding cell is approximately 40 by 5 feet. There is a cement bench against one of the longer walls. Another wall is a solid half wall with metal bars extending from it into the ceiling. Since the lower levels of the building also serve as a parking lot, cars are constantly going down the adjacent ramp, driving by approximately 30 inches from the bars. As if that weren’t enough, the bathroom inside the communal cell holds a toilet and a sink, with no toilet paper, soap, or door. Meanwhile, the media is allowed to enter and film inmates inside this cell at any time, day or night.

Apparently, there was still not enough interest in my case to send reporters my way, but the media was a constant presence in the carceleta that week because of the high-profile case of a high government official named Carmen. Authorities had arrested her three days earlier, on Monday, September 14, and she had already spent three nights in the carceleta by the time I arrived.

At the entrance to the cell, Delmi uncuffed me and told me to go inside. I walked in and occupied a tiny space on the bench. Survival instincts kicked into full gear and I quietly studied my surroundings. There were close to twelve women locked inside. Most of them were lying on the floor or sitting on the bench. Many were chatting, all were waiting. I noticed two women on the floor, their arms loosely around each other, sleeping on some blankets. Two things immediately caught my attention. One was a pile of things on the bench—two plastic bags filled with stuff, two neatly folded coverlets, and several bottles of water—that seemed to belong to nobody. Not only did they occupy precious sitting space, but no one touched them. The second was a tall, young, pretty woman who was obviously different from the rest of the inmates. She was sitting on the bench right next to me.

I soon learned that nothing can be brought into the carceleta. This is why Delmi suggested I leave my handbag at home. And this is why she also suggested that I take off my belt and scarf and leave them with my father before bringing me down there. The other thing I quickly learned was that the only people allowed to visit holding cells are attorneys. They do not need to be hired by prisoners, they simply must have their credentials available. They do not enter the carceleta per se, they simply visit through the bars.

Once I was inside, I also learned that such things as water, food, and toilet paper are only available to first-timers in the carceleta through attorneys or family members who manage to get attorneys to deliver these items. There is a schedule for food delivery: 6 a.m., 1 p.m., and 6 p.m. My lunch came courtesy of my brother Rodrigo. He sent a cheeseburger with French fries and a bottle of water. I was not very hungry, and it was not my preferred choice of food, but I decided to eat the cheeseburger anyway.

I offered the fries to my cellmates and someone took them. That was my first real encounter with them. I had been watching them, listening to their conversations and their laughter, but I had not yet spoken to anyone, except the pretty woman sitting next to me. She told me, among other things, that she had turned herself in the day before, had spent the night in the carceleta, had had her hearing that morning, and God willing, would be going home later that day. She was released a few hours later.

Meanwhile, my family figured out that my brother-in-law’s wife, Vania, could come see me because she’s an attorney. It was great to see a familiar face, but she came bearing bad news: I was now officially unemployed. My employer was suddenly claiming that they had not renewed my one-year contract, which coincidentally had ended on September 16, the day prior to my arrest.

It’s true that the renewal had not been officially signed, but no one had been in a hurry to get my first contract signed either. I had started working for them the previous September, but we only got around to signing that contract in December, so it had really seemed like a formality more than a necessity. And I was obviously on board for another year because I was clearly in the middle of a project. Additionally, my approved fundraising project included a benefit auction planned for October 28, and it had been agreed that my fundraising efforts would come in on that date. Talks had always revolved around renewing, so much so that on several occasions the foundation’s executive director had teased me, in public, about how she was worried that I may ask for a raise. It was clear that they were pleased with my performance and the success so far of the art project I had devised and implemented to benefit the children’s cancer hospital. Furthermore, I was scheduled to deliver artwork the very morning of my apprehension.

In any event, they were suddenly singing another tune. It seemed they were now claiming that I had breached my contract when I had failed to raise a certain amount of money during my first year on the job. I understood their predicament regarding this new turn of events, and I had bigger problems to attend to at the time, but the way it was handled left much to be desired. Later, they refused to give my father a letter stating that I worked there, a letter my attorney had requested in the hope of convincing the judge that I had a job and was not a flight risk.

The news left me speechless. All I can say now is that working to benefit Guatemala’s children with cancer was one of the biggest joys of my professional career; it gave me a wonderful purpose at a time when my personal life was crumbling around me, and I met and worked alongside fantastic people. The decision made by the board, which included people I have known most of my life, will always be a sad memory for me.

When Vania arrived with this news, I was reading for the first time the accusations that Juan Pablo Olyslager Muñoz, one of my husband’s alleged victims, had made against me the year before. My attorney had brought them by earlier so I would know what I was up against and in the hope that I could give him some insight into the case. Since Vania had not yet read them, she pulled out her cell phone and snapped pictures of every page. As she did this, we were interrupted by the women in the holding cell suddenly screaming for help and calling out for a doctor. I turned and realized it was one of the girls I had observed sleeping with her arms around another on the floor earlier; her body was stiff and straight as a board. It was clear she was having a seizure. Her partner, distraught, sat by her side not knowing what to do. Finally, the guards opened the gate, carried the girl out, and set her on the floor, at Vania’s feet, while her partner remained helplessly behind bars. Vania quickly took out a key chain with a stuffed monkey from her purse and put it in the girl’s mouth, trying to prevent her from swallowing her tongue. The girl was left there, on the floor, until the seizure passed.

After the shock of the moment subsided, Vania gave me a bottle of water, a small packet of baby wipes, and a tiny pillow she had managed to put inside her purse, and then left to meet my family on the outside and continue working on getting me out of there.

As if the morning chaos hadn’t been enough, later that afternoon, some of the ladies grew concerned about another young woman and began asking if she was feeling well. She responded that she was eighteen years old, had not eaten anything all day, was pregnant, and really wanted to vomit. Everyone cleared the way and the woman rushed to the bathroom. The ladies began yelling once again, slamming their hands against the bars, and demanding that the guards bring a doctor or an ambulance. It all sounds terrifying, but for what it’s worth, at no point did I feel I was in danger. On the contrary, their concern felt reassuring. I quickly realized that we were all in this together and, should that have been me, these women would have done the same thing. For the first time that day, I began to feel the sisterhood that forms among women who find themselves in this predicament, who are deprived of their freedom and their basic human rights.

It was in that interim that Carmen was brought back down to the carceleta. She had been at her hearing, and since she had been in the carceleta for several days, she was welcomed back by inmates who had seen her during that time. It was Carmen who gave the young pregnant woman some yogurt and water when she came out of the bathroom.

A short time later, an ambulance arrived for the young pregnant woman. However, there were so many of us in that holding cell by then that none of us had realized that she had returned to the bathroom, fainted, and was bleeding. She was quickly taken away.

It must have been around 5 p.m. when the inmates were called to leave the carceleta for their ride back to prison. As they all scurried away, I realized only Carmen and I were left behind, and so did the reporters. They swiftly arrived and set up their cameras, while I lay on the now empty bench and covered my face with my father’s jacket.

It must have been around 6 p.m. when my name was called. My brother Rodrigo had sent a chicken Caesar wrap and chicken soup for dinner. I originally thought the container with the hot liquid was coffee and I almost left it in the bag, but I got curious and discovered the delicious soup. I had no appetite for the wrap Rodrigo had so thoughtfully sent me, but underneath it I found a small piece of folded paper. Please let it be a note, please! And it was! I immediately unfolded it and read:

We are all with you.We support you; you are not alone.

Everything will be OK.

We are all with you. Be strong.

I love you,

Rodri

P.S. Chicken Caesar Wrap! :-)

It is very difficult to explain what it feels like to be suddenly taken physically from your usual environment, and locked up in an underground cell, with no communication with the outside world. Reading that simple yet heartfelt note meant the world to me. For a long time, that handwritten note was displayed in a picture frame in my bedroom. In that moment, and forever, it will always be my treasure.

Later, I received a visit from another family acquaintance, also a lawyer. He had come to see how I was doing and to assure me that my children would be safe no matter what happened. I had had no reason to think otherwise until then, but as this person explained to me, with an absent father and a mother in custody, my children were apparently now legally orphaned. Because of this legality, my mother and brother had contacted my brother-in-law, Ed, and had asked him to pick up my children from school. They figured that, given the malicious way things had been unfolding, anything was possible, including the public prosecutor requesting that my children be sent to a state-run orphanage, due to our new circumstances.

Now, as if the idea of spending a night in jail wasn’t tortuous enough, I’d had a bombshell dropped on me. I was being advised that, in order to protect my children, I had to move quickly and temporarily hand over custody of my children to my mother. I thanked my lucky stars that amid the drama unfolding before my eyes, I knew that my children and I were surrounded and protected by an amazing family. My mother, my brother Turi, and my brother-in-law Ed and his wife, Vania, were all ready to step forward and become my children’s legal guardians. My mother was my first choice, but due to her age, we knew there was a possibility that a judge might not grant her that right. Luckily, because my mother is so youthful and my children love her, the judge agreed and chose her.

So, one morning you wake up expecting an ordinary day, with two beautiful children on their way to school, a full day of work ahead, activities, friends, freedom, and just when you begin to think that all your hard work in the past year to lift your family back from a terrible ordeal is beginning to pay off, it is all taken away from you, in the blink of an eye, with no sense or purpose to speak of other than to get back at your husband. I still can’t believe someone would go to such lengths for revenge.

As I was pondering this new information and my reactions, I returned to the holding cell, flabbergasted by the latest news, and then remembered I was not alone.

I honestly had never heard of Carmen before that Thursday, although she was quite famous at the time. She seemed to be very anxious, sitting, standing, walking around, and constantly searching for stuff inside the two bags on the bench. Several times that evening, we sat and spoke for a while. She told me she had been in the carceleta since Monday, without access to a shower, and she had just been awarded a judge’s order to go freshen up somewhere inside the courthouse. As she began to undo her beautiful fishtail braid, I asked her how she made it. “The other inmates did it for me,” she said.

It turns out the other inmates had taunted her when she first arrived, with remarks such as, “Well, look who’s in jail now! Baldetti’s dear friend!” But Carmen immediately set them straight, explaining that it was actually because of Guatemala’s former vice president Roxana Baldetti that she was in jail in the first place. If they’d really been friends, Carmen wouldn’t have been used as a scapegoat for crimes she didn’t commit. And her remarks and explanations paid off. When all the cards seemed to be stacked against her, the inmates believed she was telling the truth, so much so, that they went from taunting her to protecting her, even going as far as making sure she looked beautiful for her public hearings. I saw this with my own eyes the following morning when Carmen put her hair up in a simple ponytail and the inmates insisted on styling her hair with another beautiful braid before she left the holding cell to attend her hearing. The inmates later told me that they had even protected Carmen from some nasty reporters who had come by to aggravate her. They were very proud to recount how they had been showcased on the nightly news yelling at the reporters to leave Carmen alone.

At some time that evening, I remember seeing Carmen take out a toothbrush and some toothpaste.

“Would you mind sharing some toothpaste with me?” I asked as I extended one of my father’s interdental brushes, so small that it went undetected by the guards when they had searched me earlier.

“On that?” she asked.

“It’s all I have,” I responded.

She immediately pulled out a new regular-sized toothbrush from her supply bag and gave it to me. Moved by her generosity, I thanked her and asked her how she was holding up. She went on to tell me a bit about her family and friends, and how helpless she felt with such a high-profile case, where she felt she was being tried by the media rather than a jury of her peers. It certainly looked like an uphill battle for her, given that the public prosecutor, the CICIG (Comisión Internacional Contra la Impunidad en Guatemala—a relatively new commission in Guatemala backed by the UN and allegedly formed to combat corruption), the media, former president Otto Perez Molina, and former vice president Roxana Baldetti were all against her. She knew that Friday’s hearing was crucial and she was preparing herself for it, but behind the hope that she might go home the following day was a latent fear that her fate had already been decided.

Before we went to sleep, if one can call that sleep, Carmen handed me one of her coverlets. She said her friends had brought her two, the pretty woman who’d been released earlier had used one the night before, and now it was mine to use for the night. I placed the tiny pillow Vania had brought me under my head, used the borrowed coverlet as a sleeping mat, wrapped myself in my father’s jacket, and suddenly realized my sleeping arrangements weren’t as terrible as I had imagined. Not even the hundreds of baby cockroaches wandering about bothered me. My biggest problem was caused by the many mosquitoes biting my feet throughout the night. Never did I imagine that I was only beginning a journey that would turn into an ongoing and arduous battle for my freedom, with the hope that justice would finally prevail.