The chapters uploaded are not in order… just the most complete.
Broward County Federal Courthouse, Ft. Lauderdale, FL September 25, 2009
Screeching into the parking space I jammed the car into park and made a beeline for the stairs. The intense heat and humidity was stifling. Drops of sweat made their way down my back. From the looks of it, Lori and Marie were not holding up any better. They came with me for support. I couldn’t have made it through the previous three years without them.
*******
I can’t believe that three years have passed since that fateful Thursday afternoon when the FBI raided the office. Seemed like a lifetime ago; how I wish I could turn back the clock and do things differently. I have to stop daydreaming; it won’t help me now.
******
My lungs already burned and the back of my legs ached. I glanced at my watch; ten o’clock in the morning and already 80⁰. I ran as if my life depended on it. My foot twisted and my strappy heel flew. I hobbled over to it, reached down and slipped it back on. When I looked up, I saw the line forming at the metal detector. Great, I was going to be late. My friends motioned for me to continue, knowing I was in a hurry. The jurors in line chatted with the guards. The juror in front of me, and the one holding me up, was casually opening a Tupperware container and offering cookies to the security guards. Incredible. Didn’t they understand I couldn’t be late?
*****
Let me clarify, I was not looking forward to this appointment. Truth be told, this juror was aiding in my procrastination. This was the culmination of 2 ½ years of waiting; waiting and wondering what was to be my destiny. I knew the deal; I was being convicted of bank fraud. It was done; signed, sealed and delivered. I’ve already worked my deal with the District Attorney. It didn’t make the sentencing any easier.
*****
I bit back the nasty comment sitting on my tongue, forced a smile and tried to slow my heaving shoulders. Before the Food Network flunkey went into the chute, I scooped up my shoes, pulled off my bracelets, watch and earrings, dumped everything on the conveyor belt, stepped into the metal detector and prayed it wouldn’t go off; my heart nearly exploded out of my chest. I looked to the guard, saw his nod, grabbed my stuff and hopped along, slipping on my heels, almost falling in the process. I raced to the staircase and sprinted up. Now, my lungs really burned and the damp sides of my blouse came loose; I looked a mess.
I spotted my attorney sitting just outside the courtroom and he looked up from his papers just as I rounded the corner. I wiped my sweaty hands on the side of my dark slacks. His small dark eyes locked on mine. He took my hand, squeezed it, and said, “Don’t worry; this will all be over in a little bit.”
My life as I know it, I thought was over. A nervous laugh sputtered out of me.
We walked inside the courtroom just as the judge entered from a side door, and stood there until he sat down. No formalities, no time to slip into courtroom mode, no time to catch my breath.
The judge read the sentencing guidelines to me and asked the District Attorney some basic questions and his recommendation on sentencing.
The District Attorney responded confirming his agreement and recommended home confinement in lieu of jail time.
The Judge turned to me and said, “Miss Rachat, do you understand the charges against you?”
***
“You have a 740 credit score!” Carlo exclaimed excitedly while running into my office. “Yes, I do.” I replied, a bit smug. “How would you like to make $2000.00?” Now that’s a stupid question I thought; of course I’d like to make $2000.00. Actually, I need that money so desperately, I thought, as I actually sat there and contemplated his offer. All I have to do is sign my name on a boat loan? Sounds easy.
***
I answered, “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Miss Rachat, was your guilty plea made without coercion and with full knowledge of the charges against you?” inquired the judge.
“Yes, Your Honor, it was.”
The judge then asked, “Are you in agreement?”
My inner voice whispered, what am I going to say, no? I couldn’t back out now.
Mr. Abraham nudged me lightly.
I stood up. My left leg shook. I heard a muffled cough behind me, and up above a fly buzzed. I still couldn’t believe this was happening. Be brave, the voice in my head whispered. Put one foot in front of the other; the walk to the podium seemed to take forever. I heard the tap of my heels and hoped I wouldn’t fall flat on my face. Courage came from some place. I put one hand on the podium, cleared my throat and looked up to the Judge, looking him in the eyes like my father taught me. My father…the policeman. With all my heart I prayed the right words would come out.
“Thank you, Your Honor. First, I want to apologize for wasting the courts time today, one more person that is on your schedule as a result of my poor decisions.” I continued, “Second, I do not stand before you to offer excuses for my behavior. I allowed myself to be in a position to make choices that brought me here today.” A loud breath rushed out of me. “At the time I thought I had no way out of a bad situation. Over the past three years, I’ve learned there is always a lawful way out of a bad situation. I was just a bit dense, and I can assure you that you will never see me in a courtroom again.”
That was a promise. I thanked him and went back to my seat. A chair scraped. Joe, my friend from church and a public defender for the county, stood and spoke on my behalf. His words were kind. I heard him assure the judge that my behavior was definitely a direct result of circumstance and completely out of character for me.
The whole process took about fifteen minutes. Three years of wondering and waiting, three years with my stomach in a knot, three years of purgatory over in fifteen minutes; kind of like Thanksgiving dinner.
The judge looked at me and said, “Denise Rachat, you have been charged with felony bank fraud and are hereby sentenced to six-months of home detention with two and a half years of probation. Once the sentence has been fulfilled….”
Whoa! The power of the judge’s words hit me…and hard. Even though I knew the outcome walking into the courtroom, his words took my breath away. Although jail time was not in my future, I imagined the resounding “clank” of a jail cell closing around my life as I knew it.
“I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances.” Phil 4:11
New Beginnings
Friday, October 2, 2009, played like a movie, over and over in my head, the culmination of two and a half years of waiting and wondering what my fate would be. I checked my watch. 8:00 AM. Why didn’t I make the appointment earlier, that way I wouldn’t worry about being late for work? Can’t change it now.
At 8:02 the doorbell rang. I blew out a breath, releasing a little of the fear that had been three years in the making. I stood up. Time to get this over with.
As I walked toward the door, I looked down at my hand. It trembled. I grabbed it with my other trembling hand. I looked at my front door and wished there was a peephole, but it didn’t have one. My stomach knotted, and as I turned the knob and swung open the door, there before me stood my jailer for the next six months. Mr. Simpson, my probation officer, stood about six feet tall with slicked back black hair that fell below his ears. Later, I noticed he wore a well-worn green button-down shirt and jeans, but the first thing I noticed was that he did not smile…at all. He looked like one of those Secret Service Agents in movies or on television, guarding the President. His gaze darted around my condo, no doubt searching for drug paraphernalia or weapons. Come on, do you think I would just leave them out in the open?
I’m kidding.
He heaved the big black box that I assumed held my monitoring device on the kitchen table with a thud. I stared at it. Why did they box it in black? Would it hurt? Would it shock me if I stepped out of line? I vaguely remember something about it zapping someone’s leg, maybe Martha Stewart. Questions swirled around my head, but a sane voice told me to focus. In fifteen minutes you will be late for work. I could not afford to be late, and I’m not talking about money. I had to work. Work was my salvation and not just to get out of the house; it was a requirement. I had to be gainfully employed or else I could have gone to jail. Yeah, that was not going to happen.
He asked where this monstrosity would be housed for the next six months, so I figured next to my bed on my nightstand would work. Who's going to go in there but family?
Sadly, no one.
He handed me a stack of papers to read over. I sat down at the table and read my new “laws” and the terms of my sentence, basically what I could and could not do for the next six months. I noted rather quickly that the “could not” do section was much longer than the “could” do section. I read over what was expected of me. Yup, lost most of my civil rights…got it. I wouldn’t need to vote anyway.
I could go to work, church, shopping two hours a week and then home, absolutely nothing else. I told myself it wouldn’t be such a hardship. I’m a homebody anyway. Yeah, another voice said, it is one thing if the rules were self-imposed and an entirely different ballgame when someone else does the imposing.
My apartment was small, only about 900 square feet. Imagine being stuck in your home with only 900 square feet to roam from the monitor; thirty yards on a football field. Homebody took on a whole new meaning. Most dogs have a longer leash.
If I behaved well during the first three months, did all the coulds and none of the could nots, I would be granted a weekend furlough for the remainder of my time. I would have four hours a week to do what I wanted. I began counting down the days before the damn thing was hooked up.
I watched Mr. Simpson hook up the system, which he connected to the telephone and tested it to make sure it worked. He still had not smiled. I waited, checked my watch every two minutes, anxious for the digital voice confirmation to say all clear. I wanted him out of my home. I quickly thought of the monstrosity as my personal GPS. Like a car’s GPS it spoke to me. If I happened to be on the connecting phone too long it said, “Hang up the phone.” Unlike a real GPS it did not track me. It just knew if I were home or not.
Reminders of my crime and punishment bombarded me. When the monitoring system was hooked up, Mr. Simpson sat across from me and went over the rules, using his pen as a pointer, and read the details of my sentence. He still had not smiled, not once. Without emotion, he reviewed the rules and asked, “Do you have any questions?”
I did have one, a huge one. How many days, hours and minutes until this thing comes off? I could not gather the courage to ask, it didn’t seem high on his priority list. Still not smiling, he continued reading over each section in detail and pointed to the dotted line.
You know the cliché: signing your life away?
I signed.
My moment of truth arrived, or should I say slammed down on me. As he held up what looked like a vintage 1980's digital watch monstrosity that was to be my constant reminder of my crime for the next six months, I reminded myself of how happy I was that no actual jail time was in my future, however, this sucked. Cinderella had nothing on me. He wasn’t holding a glass slipper.
“What, I have to be home by midnight or else I’ll turn into a pumpkin?” I quipped; my nervousness evident.
I knew as I extended my leg my freedom went out the window. Mr. Simpson, still not smiling, measured the adjustable band to my ankle size, cut off the extra length and clamped it on. It was done. The cell door clunked shut. I must say it was quite lovely and went with most everything; you can't go wrong with basic black.
I felt bone deep humiliation, and desperation so raw that I wanted to claw it off. This man didn't know me or my situation. All he knew was what was written on his paperwork. He did not know how desperate I had been. I hadn’t bilked billions from the bank. I just wanted to keep my job, feed my boy and pay the rent. He only knew what the papers said. I was convicted of bank fraud. I was, and always will be, a felon.
Bank fraud. Felon.
Those words are ominous. What is the first thing that pops into your mind when you hear them? The words don’t describe what really happened. Just like in high school a girl can get labeled. Kiss too many boys and she’s fast, don’t kiss enough and she’s frigid. Here the label was more a tattoo splattered across my forehead in inch high letters: Convicted felon.
Would these words follow me all the days of my life?
My Constant Companion (CC), the dynamite fashion accessory on my ankle changed my life in ways I never fathomed.
Imagine grocery shopping, picking up the cleaning, a prescription or going to the bank. I had two hours. The first time, I looked forward to getting out of the house. CC killed that idea. CC made it a nightmare, an anxiety-laden, dreaded nightmare. For starters, days ahead of time I started a list; I mapped a route and made a plan. List in hand, I left my condo. Have you ever thought how much you take for granted going about your day?
“Ugh, never fails!” I mumbled as I walked into the bank. The line to the teller was ten deep. Was every senior citizen in South Florida cashing their Social Security check?
“Seriously, where do they have to go?” Nowhere, that was the problem, they had all the time in the world. I contemplated going to the front of the line and lifting my pant leg exposing my CC and begging the person next in line to let me cut. Thinking a bit I realized that sympathy would not be overflowing. I anxiously tapped my foot willing the line to move fast.
I would make up time at the supermarket; I know exactly where I’m going and what I’m getting. My plan worked until I picked the wrong checkout line. “Really, can I just scream?” Wouldn’t you know it, I was stuck behind the woman with a hundred coupons, who insisted on paper and plastic, frozen food in one bag, produce in another. She was probably headed to the bank next! I watched my two hours evaporate as fast as a South Florida puddle disappears in July. My heart raced. I dashed to the car, threw the bags in the backseat. The prescription drive through line went forever. I had to skip the dry cleaning.
Get the picture? CC may be my constant companion, but it was not my friend.
Just driving home from work was a stressful experience, and I’m not talking about South Florida traffic. About a half-mile from home, I-95 was bogged up bumper-to-bumper. Unless I cut across the median and commit another crime, I knew I was stuck way past CC’s curfew. Like a teenager, I called my “jailer” and let him know the traffic situation. Believe me, it had to match the traffic reports.
Spontaneity was wiped out of my life.
Imagine coming home after a long day of work. You are about to start a fantastic dinner; a gourmet dinner you’ve been daydreaming about all day. You’ve changed into your comfy clothes, you’ve opened a bottle of wine and are about to cook. You start gathering up ingredients out of the fridge and realize that you are out of flour and have no butter. There isn’t anything you can substitute. The swordfish has thawed, it cost a fortune. Do you just hop in the car and go down the street to the supermarket?
You could. Not me.
I had to call someone and pray that they were on the road already and wouldn’t mind stopping at Publix, drive by my place and deliver it to the door. Sorry, my leash didn’t allow me to even go out to the car for any length of time. Once home at my allotted time that was it. When I was home there was no going back out.
However, as bad as CC was, CC’s constraints were a mere inconvenience. Looking back, nothing was as difficult as even the thought of telling my mom. For a long time, I vowed not to tell her at all. I thought some miracle would stop the whole nightmare and it would just go away. Then I’d never have to tell her. I was in South Florida, she was in Connecticut. How would she know? Some mornings I woke up, looked around and wondered if I just had a bad dream. I did this for three years. That was my personal purgatory. Difficult was an understatement. In some ways those days, BCC (before CC) were more challenging because I had to put my game face on for the world. I trudged through life: going to work, making the obligatory appearances at friends and church, all the while wondering when I was going to get “that” call, when the blade was going to drop. I shuddered inside whenever my cell phone rang, praying I wouldn’t see Mr. Abraham’s name. His calls were always one-sided and foreboding. He told me no news was good news. I was always on edge.
Over time it got easier but that’s when my imagination went wild. Because a year passed before I heard a word from my attorney I held on to an unrealistic hope that maybe the District Attorney was going to drop the charges against me. I would imagine pulling into my parking slip one day, staring in disbelief at my front door as a friend plastered a CONGRATULATIONS sign across my door like a banner. As I killed the engine and cautiously opened the door my friend would turn around and our eyes would meet. I was unsure, but hopeful, of the meaning behind the sign. I did not want to get my hopes up. At this point in the dream she dropped the sign, ran up to me, threw her arms around me and screamed that I was free. This daydream happened regularly. Sadly it never came to fruition.