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