Confessions From a White-Collar Criminal’s Daughter
By: Maria Martins
Tags: Family, Life Lessons, Crime, Mwc Reentry, Beyourself

Confessions From a White-Collar Criminal’s Daughter

My life drastically changed after my father became a white-collar criminal on the run and put our relationship through the wringer. Maria Martins Follow Aug 21 · 7 min read

Photo by Nicolas Ladino Silva on Unsplash

September 11th, 2001: I’m in my 5th-grade classroom on a remote Caribbean island, watching as my teachers cry in shock about something going on in the news. I’m still young, but I can tell something catastrophic has happened. What I didn’t know, however, was that this event would also unravel my family’s secrets and ultimately put an end to my fathers six years on the run.

When we abruptly moved from my home country to France, I was only around 4-years-old and didn’t think much of it. Then we moved again to Spain. And then again to London. And then again, and again. It was always out of the blue, and while I was a little annoyed at having to start over, I just assumed my parents liked travelling… a lot.

In reality, my father was the CEO of a global million-dollar manufacturing company and had done his fair share of illegal things behind the scenes while also hiding millions in tax money into various offshore accounts. He was caught and arrested with a set date to go to prison for a couple of years. However, my father pleaded for an extension on his date because my brother and I were still very young and he didn’t want to miss out on our most important years.

The extension was — unsurprisingly — denied. And I have a feeling my father expected such an outcome because not long after, he disappeared without a trace with his whole family in tow.

At first, we moved within Europe and avoided sticky situations by not registering legally anywhere and keeping a low radar. But after too many close calls with authorities, my father found a way to change all of our identities. With our new passports in hand, he relocated us to a small Caribbean island that would become our permanent home for the next few years.

However, My father’s decision to run resulted in a worldwide warrant for his arrest and his sentencing doubled. Every time he felt the police nearing in on him, he would take us on a quick escape to New York or Florida until the coast was clear to go back again.

And although I was only a child, I knew something was off… but I didn’t know what exactly.

My father never sat us down about anything and pretended our new life had always been that way. I was understandably confused but never questioned my parents because I was still young and easily manipulated. I started to forget about my home country because of how little we were allowed to speak of it, slowly adopting my new identity as reality.

But while I was unaware of our true situation, I didn’t live a carefree life by any means. My childhood was very lonely because I was extremely isolated from the real world and painfully controlled. My father discouraged me from making friends because he was afraid I would mention something suspicious to the other kids.

Teachers would send my parents countless warnings to stop taking me out of school because it was disrupting my education. I was failing and struggling to keep up. The constant bouncing around made my life very unstable which fed into my extreme social anxiety and unhealthy dependence on my parents.

From the outside looking in, we had a luxurious life full of nice things… but our life was stagnant. There was no real living because we could never step outside of our protective bubble and false identities.

But the worst part was finding out my entire life was orchestrated by lies and living with the consequences afterwards.

When 9/11 happened, everything changed. Not just for the world, but for my family too. The United States of America reinforced that criminals had to be thoroughly examined, even in the Caribbean Islands. The tragedy itself lit a fire in authorities worldwide to catch as many fugitives as they could and get rid of those that didn’t belong.

In just a few short weeks after that horrific day, the police back in my home country became aware of my father’s exact whereabouts.

It was over.

This time, he didn’t stand a chance of escaping. He was caught completely off guard as the police quietly broke into our home in the middle of the night and arrested him in bed. After all those years in hiding, he couldn’t believe they had found him. He was devastated.

My father got sentenced to eight years in prison, and naturally, my mother relocated us back home to be close to him. Unfortunately, they were still shoving his secrets under the carpet by refusing to explain what was going on. Even while my 10-year-old self was standing in prison, visiting my father for the first time since he had disappeared in the dead of night, he wouldn’t give me the honesty I deserved. I had to piece together every confusing puzzle about my life alone with no support.

I wasn’t surprised that my relationship with my father began to deteriorate after he was imprisoned. While he was too busy trying to protect his public image from everyone, including his own family, his decisions left us in a blunder of a mess.

We were now penniless without a home and a crippling debt.

And while that in itself was horrible, the hardest part was seeing how it affected my mother. She fell quickly into alcoholism — an easy escape from the hard reality that she was left to raise her kids with nothing but a husband in jail. She had always been a rule follower, afraid to do anything wrong. Living a fugitives life caused her an immense amount of anxiety and destroyed her sense of security.

His imprisonment was the last straw that finally pushed her off the edge, and it wasn’t until I was an adult that I understood just how much she suffered.

So, we moved in with my only grandparent, but even from prison, my father had a tight grip on us. Eight years is a long time to be away from someone, and he was afraid of what could change without his influence. I spent my teenage years desperately trying to grow, while my father tried to desperately put us on hold. Quite early on, I started visiting him less and less because I questioned if he was a good person at all.

When I was a child, my father was my hero. He could do no wrong, and my innocent eyes saw him as this incredible superman. But he was never that person. He was a version I had imagined, and the illusion slowly shattered during his years in prison. The more I knew or read about him, the more I disliked him, and the more time that passed, the more of a stranger he became.

I was around 18-years old when he finally got released and came bulldozing back into our lives. I always knew there would come a time when we would have to see him again, and I knew adjusting to him would be near impossible.

During those first few months of being together as a ‘family’ again, we clashed.

Hard.

Too much had changed… but more importantly, I had grown up and finally saw him for who he really was.

My father was aggressive in a bully-like manner and always tried to control us. He was mean with words and selfish with actions. He had a temper, always getting upset over the smallest of inconveniences. He was also a pathological liar with a big ego problem who cherished luxury life above all else.

But my biggest issue with him was how he never stopped to think how his actions would affect his family in the long run. He continued to hurt all of us just so that he was comfortable. He didn’t run away all those years ago because he was terrified of ‘missing out on his kids’ lives’. He was terrified of losing money and he used us to gain sympathy in his case.

I couldn’t adjust to having him in my life again because he would never acknowledge the role he played in our struggles. Prison had turned him bitter, and he dared to blame everything that went wrong in his life on us. In his mind, he was a victim who had made sure his kids lived a good life. He went to prison ‘for us’, and we owed him gratitude.

As you can imagine, I was pretty angry and we had massive altercations almost every day. I was the shy quiet girl, now screaming at an adult man for taunting my poor drunk mother and blaming his children for decisions he made as an adult. A man who had gotten away with most things in life was now being held accountable by a young girl, and he couldn’t handle it.

I, on the other hand, couldn’t handle who he wasn’t. He wasn’t a father, he was a dictator. I had come to terms with the fact that he was deeply flawed and his presence was unhealthy.

I decided to cut ties with my father and moved out.

Now, in my twenties, I reflect on that period of my life a lot. It sometimes doesn’t seem real, like it was a movie I watched a long time ago. I wish I could say that it wasn’t all that bad, but in reality, my family was broken in a way that couldn’t be fixed, and that is the biggest cause of heartbreak for me.

One thing is for sure, all those years away from my father when he was in prison was a blessing in disguise. It was a defining moment that helped me break away from his control long enough to become a person that could see the truth. Had he never gone to prison or had a long sentencing, I don’t think I would have found the happiness I did without him in my life.

I have since moved on from that chapter and even forgiven him for all that was said and done. But although my father and I have been apart for a long time, I don’t think I’m ready for another return… at least for now.