Carmen María Montiel - Stolen Identity

But despite being nearly destroyed, I managed to retain my dignity even while being forced to allow him to lead a double life as a respected family man with a successful medical practice and a husband who cheated on his wife with prostitutes, often in their own home.

I loved my husband and worked hard to build a family and our business. I never imagined he could hurt me, much less try to destroy me. Like most abuse victims, I never thought when he hurt me that it was intentional. After every assault, I recreated the incident to see what I did that caused him to react violently.

Stolen Identity goes beyond domestic violence to expose how difficult it is to recognize abusers, even for the authorities. This is the story of an abused immigrant woman who had no place to go or hide. A Catholic who believed in family and fought to save it for her children’s sake. In the end, however, because of her children, she had to get out of that vicious marriage to save herself.

“You are charged with a single count of ‘intimidating a flight attendant.’” I am standing with my hands handcuffed and feet shackled—this is beyond humiliating. The judge continues: “The charge has a prison sentence of up to 20 years and a fine of $250,000!”

I can hardly hold my body up. My legs are shaking. I whisper to my lawyer that I am afraid in the quietest voice I can manage to get out of my lips. I can hardly speak. My life is passing by inside my head, all the light and happiness, my three beautiful children. And now my world has come to this? How? Why?

After all the shining moments in my life, after all the hard work, always helping others and holding my head high—because “doing the right thing” was the motto my parents raised me with—I am ending my life in prison! Will I become a felon? Me? The maximum that had happened to me before this was a traffic ticket. Will Alejandro succeed in setting me up?

My feet can hardly support my now extra tiny body; though tall, I now only weigh 110 pounds. I cannot control my shaking. I am hoping no one can notice.

My lawyer whispers in my ear to be calm.

The prosecutor addresses the judge and asks for my passports to be turned in—mine and those of my children.

“Her husband says she is a flight risk, Your Honor, and she will take his children away.”

At that moment, I realized that Alejandro was trying hard to block my release. It was as if he had something to do with the charges. In time, I would understand how all of it was planned.

It has happened in the “best” of families. Sons have killed their fathers to become kings. Henry VIII executed two of his six wives. And Henry II sent his wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine, to prison for ten years.

My attorney protests, “Your Honor, her husband took her Venezuelan passport from the house and it cannot be found. Her family lawyers have requested it numerous times since the divorce proceedings began. These are more of his abusive tactics. She has been the victim of domestic violence for years.”

Tears started to roll down my cheeks once I realize my love story has turned little by little into this nightmare.

“I am subpoenaing the husband to produce the passports,” the judge said. “A big strong marshal will make sure he comes on Thursday.”

At the end of the hearing I am taken back to a cell. I lost track of time because it took so long that it felt like an eternity. It was so long I thought they were not going to release me that day. I was afraid I was going to be taken back to the Federal Pen, as they called it.

Finally, someone came for me and took me to a room where one of my criminal lawyers was on the other side of the window. While I was walking, I passed other cells with men who were talking even though they could not see each other. One of them said to the other: “ ¡Esta bolilla debe ser una mula! ” meaning “This white woman must be a drug trafficker.”

“What is going on?” I asked my lawyer. “I have not done anything.”

“It is a stupid charge, Carmen, but it is a federal charge. You need to answer these questions for your release. However, I need to tell you that the prosecution is fighting hard. They said your husband called the FBI agent several times to warn them that you are a flight risk.”

“I will not go anywhere without my children! How is it that Alejandro has the FBI agent’s direct number?”

“They are saying he is almost crying, saying you will take the children and he will never see them again. He is even saying that you have TWO Venezuelan passports.”

“He is the one with dual identity in Venezuela. He is insane, accusing me of HIS crimes. He is behind all of this—you know it’s a lie!”

“Ssssshhhh! We will talk later. Just answer the questions.”

I answered all the questions, for my attorney. They were mostly financial questions.

After that, I was taken back to the little cell where I waited to be called again, hoping to be taken home.

But suddenly I thought: “Oh my God! Another night in this place?”

I had never felt so insignificant. In a place I did not know, with people I never imagined I would ever spend time with or even be close to. There I was with alleged drug traffickers, murderers, illegal immigrants, and prostitutes! Criminals, real criminals, and then me!

When they asked me what I had done and I explained, they were all incredulous. I did not look as though I belonged there. They called me “the Virgin” because they said my face was so beautiful and I wore no makeup.

“She is a Virgin,” one said. “Oh! A doll,” said another.

Before that, the only time I had seen a prostitute was from a distance while driving in Caracas by Libertador Avenue. They looked as if they came from an alternative world. I never imagined our lives would end up being so similar: Abused, drugged and taken to a criminal court. In a way I was part of today’s slavery of women.

Alejandro had brought a different set of prostitutes into our lives, Houston prostitutes. They dance in men’s nightclubs.

Once while insulting me, Alejandro said: “You think you are different from the rest of the world because you have light eyes. Don’t you? Well those prostitutes I am involved with that you hate also have light eyes. See, Carmen. There is no difference between you and them!”

He managed to label me like this the day of the first setup and after that, I became his prisoner, just like prostitutes become imprisoned by their pimps.

My fellow prisoners probably thought I was lying. The federal officers told me not to say who I was or where I lived. It felt like they understood an injustice had been done, and they wanted to protect me.

They said: “No one here is your friend. Be careful what you say. Be careful with every word. It is better if you limit your communication with them. Do not tell them you live in Memorial. They don’t understand where you come from.”

Memorial is one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in Houston.

“Great! Now what?” I thought to myself. It was too late. I had already told a couple of people, including my cellmate.

How could I not say anything when I could not stop crying? Of course, these women were asking.

The officers explained that this was not a jail; it was prison, federal prison. I did not understand the difference. I had never cried so much.

I expected my lawyers to come see me in that place and explain where I was. The marshals had picked me up around noon. I thought my lawyers would show up to tell me what was going on. I spent the whole afternoon waiting for them. I was hopeful until quite late.

I had to be nice to these women. But I did not know how to act with them. How should I talk to them? I smiled but mostly stayed quiet.