THE EXECUTION OF SERGEANT STEVENS DECEMBER ARREST

On the morning of December 14, 2022, I heard an enormous bang. Looking out of my fifth-floor office window, I saw multiple vehicles, including what looked like two large police personnel carriers. In one of the most surreal moments of the yearlong campaign, I slipped into what I describe as dual reality. Knowing what was happening, one part of me sat down at my desk, lit a cigarette, and waited for the inevitable. The other part, in denial, messaged the housekeeper to ask what the bang was, hoping for an explanation other than what was unfolding.

 

Masked and armed SWAT team officers came from either end of the office or bedroom. One came up the spiral staircase and one up the lift. The others went through the property, blowing door after door despite all being unlocked. I was told to get face down on the floor, hands tied.

 

The special task force asked where the guns were, and I responded that there were no guns. “I have a self-defence mace spray gun in my handbag,” I said, gesturing to the orange handbag by my desk.

The SWAT team seemed both confused and disappointed, as if expecting Pablo Escobar and a stash of submachine guns, instead finding a glorified water pistol in an interior designer’s handbag.

 

Several plain-clothed and uniformed officers joined shortly after the SWAT team confirmed they had secured their target.

 

They were then joined by Wouter de Swardt, who walked into my bedroom, pointing and laughing at me, and taking photos with his camera—like a tourist looking at an oddity at the circus.

 

I had actually asked the senior officers the same question three times. I watched the police, both plain-clothed and uniformed, tear through the property, opening every cupboard, every drawer, and looking in every nook and cranny. In my office, they had cleared out literally everything: the laptops, phones, hard drives, backup drives, and every document, piece of paper, folder, and file.

 

However, in all the other rooms, they did no such thing; they would open cupboards and drawers, and in those, there was paperwork, some clerically official-looking, and they simply moved on to the next drawer. So, they were clearly not looking for paperwork, documents, or letters. But it was clear they were looking for something specific.

 

So, I asked the Investigating Officer, “What are you guys looking for so intently and so specifically?” He was aggressive in his reply and said, “You’ve seen the warrant; you know why we’re here!”

 

When we were in the room and I saw the same behaviour, I asked again. Referring to the warrant he mentioned, I said, “You are here to arrest me for fraud, yet you are looking in every place and disregarding paperwork, files, and things that could have a bearing. You guys are clearly looking for something specific. What is it?”

 

An officer was passing by at the time, and he tore me to shreds. He was very aggressive and in my face, and I felt that his aggression was definitely excessive. They all seemed more and more frustrated and anxious as the search continued, and nothing was found.

 

It could have been guns they were looking for if Wouter de Swardt had told them there were guns to motivate the SWAT team. But guns are not large, and they were not looking after papers. Whatever it was, it was small enough to fit in a closet but too large to be under some paperwork.

 

They were looking for a suitcase of cash and diamonds. Or, at the very least, a suitcase with lots of cash in it. Wouter de Swardt has obviously never found a secret bank account. I know this because there has never been one. But if he thought I had been banking millions legally or illegally, it had to be somewhere. And my home made the most sense.