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.
Chapter 6
El Centro de Detención Preventiva para Mujeres Santa Teresa
Week One
I arrived at Santa Teresa Women’s Correctional Facility in Guatemala City on Wednesday, January 6, 2016, slightly past midnight. After less than twenty-four hours in jail, I had already accumulated a wealth of new experiences that I was anxious to share with the outside world, but my brain was a wreck and my heart so broken that I sometimes felt like I couldn’t even breathe. Every time I thought of my two lovely, innocent children, I broke down and cried.
The road from the courthouse’s carceleta in Guatemala City to Santa Teresa was dark and unknown to me, and the prison was darker still. A dim light bulb here and there made my eyes struggle to see. Handcuffed and guarded, we stepped out of the gray pickup truck and descended many steps toward the prison. My first memory will probably always be the terrible stench from cat urine overpowering my senses as soon as we entered the warden’s office area. I felt like I was being buried alive.
The check-in process is still a blur to me. I was asked about my academic background, about the reason for my imprisonment, and was assigned to Cellblock One. The word was that I was lucky to have been placed in that cellblock, but I couldn’t fathom it. I was registered as inmate number 104, in a block originally designed for an estimated sixty-four women, with thirty-two bunk beds. Needless to say, this situation forced us to sleep in unconventional ways. At 1:30 a.m., I walked into a dark cellblock, lit only by a colorful Christmas tree and the traditional Guatemalan crèche.
After the guards locked the gates behind me, I was welcomed by Mimi, whom I would soon learn was the cellblock’s voice. It is common for new inmates to arrive at the prison late at night, so Mimi was used to this situation. When I say Mimi welcomed me, I literally mean she welcomed me to share her twin bed. I was overcome by such exhaustion after spending twelve hours in the carceleta, that I didn’t think twice about my newfound situation and simply crawled into bed next to this big woman, who generously let me have one-third of the space on her sleeping bunk and even lent me a blanket. Before long, I fell asleep.
I did wake up several times during the night, a bit disoriented, but fully aware of my circumstances; having no watch, and therefore no way of knowing what time it was, I closed my eyes and went back to sleep. At 4 a.m., I was startled awake by a bell, like the ones you may hear in schools or firehouses. However, this was no school recess or fire emergency. This is what they call an inmate count or head count. I quickly learned this was to be part of my new daily prison routine. When that bell rang at 4 a.m., every last one of us had to get out of our beds, line up in a predetermined manner in the main cellblock hall, and wait for the prison warden and her lieutenants to complete the 104-inmate head count. After the officers locked the gates behind them and were on their way to count inmates in the other cellblocks,