Less than an hour later, I was taking the stand. I went up there with every intention of being brave, but the tears took over as soon as I sat down on that awful chair. I had to ask the judge for a few minutes to calm down. Once I composed myself, I looked first at the defense attorney before focusing on the crowd. Eventually, I worked up the courage to look at the faces of my family and then into the eyes of my father. He stared back with a cold look of infinite sadness. With silent lips, he slowly uttered the words I love you addressed directly to me.
Jacqie saw it as well, and we both began to cry. Yet again, this man was toying with our emotions, trying to manipulate us. And it hurt! Everything went blank again. Did he really still love me? Thousands of images raced through my mind, and I just wanted to take off running and get as far away from that horrible gray room as fast as possible.
First, his lawyer brought up the police report from 1997. Still mentally blocked up by the fear from that I love you, I couldn’t remember what the hell I’d said back then. My answers were a disaster.
During one of the breaks in testimony, my mother grabbed both my hands, kissed them, and said: “Mija, your words are going to help so many little girls out there who are suffering just like you did. You can be their voice now. You can help them, through your story. Be strong, baby. I’m with you.”
With her words still ringing in my ears, I returned to the witness stand, and bam! It all came back to me as if it were yesterday. I was answering even the most rigorous questions without hesitation. Not even the shame of testifying in front of my grandparents, my siblings and even Héctor, who was also there in the courtroom, could stop me. Sometimes I was forced to bring up details involving the penis or vagina, and other things that were so disgusting they made me blush. But I was not about to be intimidated. I was going to show the world that I was not a liar.
The only one I felt deeply embarrassed for was my tío Juan. I was his beloved little girl, and he was my hero, my father figure. If it hurt me to tell this story, imagine what it was like for him to hear it that day, in that room, staring into the face of my father, who denied each and every allegation with a shake of his head.
These court appearances felt endless. Entire days spent listening to lawyers, laws, criminal codes and the most disturbing evidence you could imagine, like the medical examination the police performed on Jacqie in 1997. According to the results of that examination, her abuse had started as early as two years old, though, of course, she wouldn’t remember any of that. There were so many details that I had never wanted to hear!
In October, someone paid the half-million-dollar bail that had been set by the judge. In a weird coincidence, it was a member of my dad’s family who bore the same name as my beloved tío, Juan Rivera.
That evening, my father walked into court on his own two feet, free, dressed in a suit and tie and accompanied by his family. He looked more composed, and even arrogant. He dared to look at us directly.
At the conclusion of that session, both families left at the same time through the same door, and everyone’s temper was flaring. How could they let him out of the joint, even after he paid bail? The Rivera clan protested indignantly. And as you might have expected, the tigers started going at each other right then and there.
Mikey was the first to approach my father in the hallway; he threw a punch right at my father’s head because, according to him, Trino gave my tío Lupe an arrogant look, and he just couldn’t control himself. Suddenly everyone was biting, punching and kicking in all directions. It was war between the two families! And amidst all that fighting, my father kept that same arrogant little grin on his face, while my mother was screaming bloody murder: “You son of a bitch! You’re gonna pay for everything you did, you bastard!”
Thank God my tío Juan wasn’t there that day. When Juan lands a punch, it lands hard, and a second or third will put you in the hospital. I wouldn’t want even my worst enemy to catch a blow from Tío Juan.
“Stop lying and defend your dad! It’s not right for you to be doing this to your dad, Chiquis!” Tía Soco, my father’s sister, screamed endlessly. “It’s your mom who put all these things in your head! She’s the liar!”
Oh no she didn’t! Calling my mother a liar? That’s when I lost my cool. I grabbed her by the hair and started shaking her until she fell to her knees.
“Leave me alone!” I demanded, choking back tears. “Don’t ever call me or my mother a liar again. You don’t know a damn thing. Nothing! Do you hear me? Just shut up!”
That’s when five police officers jumped in and separated us. They had to escort the Marín family out one door and the Riveras out the other. We were warned that if another fight like that broke out, the judge would have us all arrested. Both families went home that day with heads and hearts bruised and sore. Everyone was feeling a lot of pain.
The verdict finally came after months of anguish, in April of 2007. And according to our attorneys, my testimony was decisive. Tía Rosie’s, on the other hand, wasn’t quite as strong. When the forensic doctors examined her in 1997, she was already sixteen years old and had been sexually active with her boyfriend. My physical evidence was much clearer, because I was only twelve at the time. It was much easier to attribute the markings on my body to my father. As for the marks on my soul, there is no jury in the world that can measure those.
The judge, surrounded by mountains of documents, called each of us to deliver our closing arguments. Rosie spoke first, and after describing to my father the irreparable pain he had caused her, she ended with these words, which I will never forget:
“I grew up without being able to look my niece in the face because of the guilt I felt. I blame myself for not having reported you when you first did it to me, because then you’d never have been able to do it to her.”
I felt an overwhelming sense of peace. Rosie and I weren’t as distant as I thought we were at the time. Whatever the outcome of this trial might be, we would remain united. This embarrassing circus was nearing its end; it was time to forgive and forget, and also to offer my own final words. I took the stand.
“Dad, if you had just said you were sorry, it never would have come to this. We wouldn’t have needed to go to trial. All I wanted was for you to ask for our forgiveness, to hear you say that you still love me, and that I’m not a liar.”
In return, he gave me the most horrible look I’ve ever seen. His hatred was infinite.
Wow, I thought to myself as I stepped down. You’re gonna get exactly what you deserve.
Then the foreperson stood up and read the expected verdict in words that echoed throughout the courtroom: “José Trinidad Marín, we the jury find you guilty of three counts of lewd and lascivious acts with a minor child, three counts of oral copulation with a minor child, one count of aggravated assault and one count of aggravated sexual assault of a minor child.”
In all, he was convicted on eight of the nine charges filed against him. Two weeks later, he was sentenced to thirty-one years in prison without the possibility of parole or reduced sentence.
A few cries of relief erupted from the Rivera half of the courtroom. On the Marín family side, it was all tears. The court officers placed my father in handcuffs once again.
At the exit, a dozen or so policemen formed a barrier separating the two families. This time, no punches were thrown. Journalists were there, taking a million photos of me. Great, I thought, feeling completely overwhelmed. Now the entire world knows I was abused. If things don’t go well with Héctor, my one and only boyfriend so far, no other man will ever accept me.
During the next few days, I felt consumed by shame. I didn’t want to go out to a restaurant; I didn’t want to see anyone. I just felt as if everyone was staring at me, thinking, Look what happened to poor little Chiquis. The aura of being the victim really messed me up. My mother’s biggest fear had become my biggest torment.
Until one afternoon, some weeks later, when my mother—who hadn’t yet figured out how to get me out of
my depression—asked me to go with her to one of her concert promo events.
“Princess, let’s go out so you can just get your mind off things for a little while. It’ll do you good to get out of the house and have a change of scenery.”
The look on her face told me that everything would be okay, that there was always a way out of each and every tough situation. And once again, my mother was right, because as soon as we got to the place, fans rushed at me from every which way and embraced me. All sorts of people, from mothers to elderly women to younger girls like myself. At first I felt really uncomfortable and tense, but soon enough the warmth of so many beautiful people began to comfort me. And later that night, the e-mails started coming—hundreds of them, from all across the world. I couldn’t believe it! As the months went on, I even started getting letters in the mail from other countries where my mother was already well known. Most of them were from girls younger than me. Many were minors. Their stories were similar to my own and their fears were the same as mine were.
These are the girls my mother was telling me about, I realized. Suddenly, my story didn’t cause me as much pain and it didn’t hurt so much that the world now knew it too. How right she was to give me the encouragement I needed during the trial so I wouldn’t crack under the pressure! Just as she had predicted, my voice was becoming the voice for those who couldn’t speak, shout or condemn on their own.
Of the many letters and messages I received, there’s one in particular that I remember, in which a young girl wrote, My mom doesn’t believe me. What a horrible thing. At least my mother believed me right from the start. My mother—the crazy woman who occasionally screwed up and had the damnedest way of expressing everything out in the open—never doubted me. Not even for an instant.
“I’m really lucky,” I told my faithful friend Dayanna, who never left my side during those trying times. “I’m not anybody’s victim. I have my mother’s unconditional love.”
“My dear friend, you also have the love of the thousands of women who also believe you. Chiquis the liar is gone,” she replied with a huge smile on her face.
Not long after that, I made my first national television appearance to talk about the abuse. Charytín interviewed me on Univision. I would not remain in hiding anymore.
Charytín proved, as she always does, to be an excellent communicator and an even better person. Every question she asked me was compassionate and respectful. And with her respect, and that of the audience, I celebrated my twenty-first birthday that week. I was officially a grown woman.
Around that time, when things were calming down, and because it was such a special date for me, I asked about seeing my father. I felt it was time to sit down and talk one on one, to tell each other what we didn’t say in court. But he, by then locked up in the Long Beach county jail, refused my visitation request. His response was that Mikey or Jacqie could see him, but not me.
At home, we held a vote: to go or not to go? Jenni and Mikey agreed: if Chiquis couldn’t go, then nobody would. He would see all of his children, or none. But my poor Jacqie had more trouble deciding.
“All right, we won’t go,” she resigned herself to accept. “But I want to see him someday.”
Jacqie’s words left my mother feeling undone that night. The fierce lioness trying to protect her cubs just couldn’t understand.
“How could they love such a man? They’re crazy! How could they still have feelings for a human being who feels nothing?”
Over time, my mother began to understand: that man, with all his crimes and imperfections, would—at least for Jacqie and me—always be our father. We couldn’t hate the blood of our blood. We both had enough heart within us to continue to love beyond the sins and the tragedy. It’s how she raised us to be ever since we were little girls, because Jenni also had an abundantly large heart.
“Okay, kids, we have to give it some time, but I promise you I’ll take you to see him myself,” my mother finally consented. “You’ll see him, even if he’s behind bars. But only on one condition: it’s all of you, or none.”
For my part, I decided that if my father didn’t want to see me, he would at least hear from me. That’s just how stubborn I am. I felt the urge to tell him that I still loved him, that I had already forgiven him, but that I had still done the right thing by testifying against him.
However, after my third handwritten letter was returned to me unopened, I gave up. Perhaps the fierce momma lioness had been right, after all.
11.
ON YOUR KNEES BEFORE GOD
In the middle of my father’s trial, with the wounds of the past still open and raw, a little episode took place that I’ve never told anybody about. It’s another lesson about the power of forgiveness when it comes to my own life and the lives of those I love. It’s the beauty that is born from the guts of even the ugliest and most twisted of things.
The woman who pushed me to “play house” ten years before called me.
“We need to talk,” she said, her voice nervous but determined.
“About what?” I answered, confused. Back then, so many things were happening that I was starting to feel dizzy.
“About the most important thing.”
My heart froze. Immediately I knew what she was talking about: our secret. The world now knew about my father, but if anyone found out about the other abuse I suffered, I would have died. I don’t know exactly why, but somehow this secret made me feel dirtier than all the other secrets I’d had to live with up until then.
I agreed to see her, and the woman came to our house in Corona in less than an hour. I was home alone at the time. My siblings were all in school and my mother was in the studio recording new songs.
When she entered the house, she got down on her knees in front of me.
“Forgive me. I ask and beg for your forgiveness,” she said between sobs. Her tears were as plentiful as they were genuine. They came from a place so deep that I swear I’ve rarely seen someone so broken inside.
Dear God, thank you, I thought to myself with relief. I didn’t imagine this. I didn’t dream it up. It also really happened . . . and I’m not crazy.
“Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me!” The woman wouldn’t even stop to take a breath, and her face twisted and contorted in pain. “For all of these years, I’ve lived with this remorse. I can’t take it anymore. I need your forgiveness in order to keep on living.”
I didn’t cry. On the contrary, I felt very relaxed. At that moment, I realized something that I knew in my heart but never expressed: I had forgiven her years ago! I didn’t have even the slightest bit of resentment toward her. And just having her there, accepting her mistake, somehow validated me. It’s a shame that the story with my father couldn’t have ended that same way: in private, and with the most worthy form of repentance.
I knelt down beside her and hugged her. The embrace was genuine and filled with love, but without drama.
“I already forgave you many years ago. I don’t know how, but I forgave you, just as I forgave my father. You can go in peace now.”
Her tears began to subside. She stood up, fixed her hair and looked into my eyes with a sense of peace that only forgiveness can bring. She gave me one last quick hug, grabbed her bag and left.
Our time together was that short. No other words were spoken. It was done. Forgive, and be forgiven. And we closed that book forever.
There are some secrets that should remain just as they are, without being judged by men. This was one of those secrets. That morning, we left everything in God’s hands. The punishment was the profound regret and remorse, the sort of which I still haven’t seen in my father’s eyes nearly twenty years after the atrocities he committed. And the divine sentence handed down from above was forgiveness.
I confess that God graced me with an incredible capacity to forgive. Forgiveness gives me wings. It makes me feel warmth in my heart, and it allows me to love the ones I need to love. Anyone who knows me knows this: I am not bitter. Not in
the least. I was born that way. Or maybe I just learned on my own to forgive in order to survive.
But the most difficult absolution of my life was yet to come. My most difficult lesson in the art of forgiveness was still pending.
12.
COLD FEET, WARM HEART
Oh God. My children are doomed to visit their parents behind bars. It’s not fair. It’s just not fair,” my mother wailed, pounding herself in the head over and over again.
Four months after my father went into the system, my stepfather Juan was also arrested and sent to prison. Nobody can accuse my mother of exaggerating to sell more records this time. I swear, drama has followed this family relentlessly. It doesn’t just rain every few years, it pours!
“Damnit, Juan!” she shouted. My mother was seriously pissed off. She had only recently been able to sign the divorce papers after three contentious years of separation, and they were just getting back to being amicable and getting along together. And now this!
By this time, my mother was quite an established celebrity, having played to packed houses at legendary Los Angeles locations such as the Nokia Theatre and the Gibson Amphitheatre. And now, both fathers of her children were in jail. One for abusing minors, while the other was caught crossing the border with marijuana.
“What possible reason could he have for pulling that shit?!” I heard her say. My mother was beside herself. While the divorce was dragging on, she was paying Juan $5,000 a month in alimony. Apparently, my stepfather wanted more. He was such a good guy, but he just kept getting himself in trouble. And for that, he was given a ten-year sentence, which fate would not allow him to complete.
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