“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?”