April 26, 2021
It was the pounding at the front door that woke me, fifteen minutes before my alarm was scheduled to go off at 6:30 to start my day. And I do mean pounding. I'm not sure which of us woke first, but we threw off the bedcovers.
"What is that?" Hubby exclaimed.
I've watched enough Lt. Joe Kenda: Homicide Hunter. I know what that is. "That's a cop knock. We have to answer it," I tell him. WHY there's a cop knock at our door is something of a huge mystery.
The pounding comes again. I literally fell on the master bathroom floor, trying to get both legs into my jeans at the same time. I wasn't going to answer the door just in my nightshirt. Hubby tries to help me up and we scramble for the front door. I pulled it open to find a battering ram drawn back, ready to strike, held by two officers. A third held up his fist to knock again. More lined the sidewalk behind them.
We were asked to identify ourselves. We did. We got hustled down the sidewalk and handcuffed.
"It's for your protection," we were told.
It's barely fifty degrees out, I'm watching cops sweep my house like I'm a common criminal, you're asking if I have children in the house--yes, in the furthest bedroom on the top floor--and I'm supposed to feel protected because I'm being held by the arm and I'm in cuffs?
"Are we under arrest?" I asked the cop holding me.
"You are not under arrest at this time," he said.
I stared at Hubby. I had no idea why this was happening and mouthed a guess to him. He shook his head, terror in his countenance.
That's when I caught the letters on the back of the windbreaker of the man holding onto Hubby: FBI.
"You're the FBI?" I squeaked.
"Yes."
Now I'm even more terrified. Did somebody manage to "SWAT" us? And why? Hubby is out of work. I'm a freaking grocery store cashier. We have nothing.
"Are there any guns in the house?"
I rallied to the question. "There's a BB gun, but I'm not even sure where the ammunition is for it. That's all."
"Any pets?"
"Four cats. Please don't let them get out," I pleaded.
We were led back inside and uncuffed. Hubby was diverted into the living room. I was herded downstairs and into the den, like they knew where they were going. Four agents--agents, not cops--stood in my dining room. One of them said, "Okay, let's make this our command area." What is even going on? I noticed my kids in the kitchen with another agent. A glance in their direction was all I got. We went into the den without so much as a backward glance.
And that's when these two agents informed me that they had traced child pornography to an IP address in my home.
WHAT.
I could not wrap my head around it. The questioning went on for two and a half hours and I still couldn't believe it.
"Why do you think it's not your husband?" one agent pressed.
"I don't want a divorce," I shot back.
Around 8 in the morning, they had cleared my cell phone and allowed me to call work. I told the office worker who answered the phone that I wasn't going to make it in for my shift that day. As per protocol, I got bumped to management for approval. I got my favorite manager. "M," I said, knowing he's the soul of discretion, "the FBI is at my house. I don't know how long I'm going to be tied up with this, but I won't be in." Fortunately it was a Monday...not exactly a busy day at the store.
They gave me screen names. I'd never heard of them before. I couldn't believe my husband held any of them. They were horrible. The word "deviant" was in one of them. They asked if I was familiar with certain apps. Well, yes. They were ones I didn't want my children using. Did I use them? No. I was shown two pictures of a girl. Did I know her? No.
I begged them to clear my laptop and not take it; I needed it for work. Same with my tablet. They cleared those and the kids' tablets.
They asked me to unlock Hubby's phone. I was so flustered I couldn't remember his pattern code. (I never felt a need to; I trusted him.) I told them to ask Middle, feeling like six kinds of a fool. But Middle remembered it.
"We're ready for her," one of the lady agents said from the doorway.
My interview with the two male agents was just about done, and it was slowly sinking in: they were really looking at Hubby for child pornography. They really were. He'd done this terrible thing.
I was allowed to go upstairs and dress under the supervision of one of the female agents. I got the shock of my life when I came across a big black Labrador Retriever in the upstairs hall. Oh, gosh. Youngest. She's afraid of dogs. Hope she didn't encounter this guy. Electronics-sniffing dog. Who knew. Once again, I was so flustered by the whole day's events thus far that I could not find the jeans I was looking for...the ones I was literally wearing. I threw on some more clothes, put up my hair, and went back downstairs.
A victim specialist had spent the morning with my kids. Now she, the girls, another lady agent, and I drove to our local PD to meet up with another lady who does forensic interviews of minors for the FBI so that my daughters could be forensically interviewed, one at a time.
I stayed in the conference room at the PD and prayed, paced, and read the gospel of John. I also shot off an email to my therapist, telling her what was going down and asking if she by chance could make time for me today.
I wasn't allowed to know what the girls said in their interviews. The only thing the victim specialist said was that she was reasonably confident they had not been harmed, but a number of red flags were raised. I just nodded numbly.
It was noon by the time the lead agent joined us at the PD. He informed me that they had finished up at the house, and had left me with an inventory of the things they had confiscated. He also informed me of Hubby's arrest, for two counts of possession of child pornography and one count of distribution.
"Is he...already gone?" I asked.
"He's already en route to Big Town for processing," the agent assured me.
And that, dear readers, is how my world rocked off its anchor.
