South Florida couple faces additional charges for sexual abuse of teen, police say
Alvaro Jaramillo, 27, and his wife, Isabel Estrin, 24, began communicating with the 16-year-old through Instagram in October 2024, according to police. By December, they had met with her and another juvenile female, engaging in sexual acts, according to the arrest report.
The report details multiple sexual encounters at locations including the Hard Rock Hotel & Casino and Estrin's parents' home.
The relationship reportedly continued until the teen's mother became aware of it on or around Feb. 1.
On February 3, 2025, Estin and Jaramillo, who lived in Aventura at the time, were arrested.
Estrin was charged with one count of unlawful sexual activity with a specified minor. Jaramillo was charged with two counts of unlawful sexual activity with a specified minor, one count of promoting a sexual performance by a child and one count of interference with custody.
Hallandale Beach said the two new charges of sexual activity with a minor were filed for assaults committed in their city.
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Shingles vaccination rates rose during the COVID-19 pandemic, but major gaps remain for underserved groups
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My Mom Dropped A Shocking Family Secret In My Lap. I Never Looked At My Father The Same Way Again.
'There's something I have to tell you,' my mother said in a tone that suggested a life-changing reveal was coming my way at Applebee's. 'I'm adopted?' I asked. At 22, I knew my dark coloring had long been a point of discomfort for my parents, both blond with light eyes. 'Who does she look like...?' people would ask, fishing for a story. 'Joy looks like Joy,' my mother used to say. 'You're not adopted,' she said now. 'Daddy's not my real father?' I guessed. It had never occurred to me before that only one of them wasn't my biological parent, but the look on my mother's face told me the answer was yes before she said the word. I always knew my parents tried to have a baby for five years, and that my mother's beloved gynecologist helped her conceive me, their only child. What I only learned that night was how her doctor helped — by inseminating my mother with donated sperm. 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I remembered going out with him alone only a few times when I was a little kid. He let me sit in the front seat of the car and drink orange soda from a can — things my mother never allowed. But our times together felt out of sync. I was once so excited to paint my bedroom dresser with my father in the basement, only to find that he had finished by the time I found the perfect outfit for the project. I was jealous of the way my little cousins raced into their dad's arms when he came home. My dad and I were like coworkers who both reported to my mom — cordial, but in quiet competition to be her favorite. 'Where is he when I need him?' my mother used to yell when something went wrong and my father was out, as he often was. But I liked it better when he wasn't around. His arrival home brought his unhappiness into the house, which I didn't know how to manage. With my mother, whose moods could also be unpredictable, I knew exactly how to jolly her up: by doing humorous impressions of people we both knew, or playing with her hair, or showing her some of my art. I didn't really know how to make my dad happy, and not being able to figure it out made me feel like a failure. I wondered now if this lack of biological connection was why he didn't look at me the way a father looked at a beloved daughter ― because he didn't see himself reflected back? I could never bring myself to ask. My dad and I talked about the details of my conception only twice, once right after my mother's big reveal, when I wanted to know if this was something he thought about often (it was), and if it caused him pain (it did). The second time was 20 years later, when I told him about finding my donor siblings. In the early 2000s, I had heard about the Donor Sibling Registry, started by a mother and the son she had conceived using a sperm donor. I joined because I'd recently been on the subway sitting across from someone I thought looked so much like me that I almost introduced myself. Could she have been a half-sibling? Then at the dentist's office, a hygienist said there was another patient who resembled me so closely — even our dental X-rays looked alike — that she just assumed this person was my sister. 'Oh no,' I had told her. 'I'm an only child.' But was I? Nothing came of my profile on the Donor Sibling Registry until 10 years later, when I received a Facebook message from a man who thought he might be my half-brother. By that time, genetic testing kits were readily available. I ordered one. The results revealed this man was not my half-sibling, but two other people were. My half-brother, half-sister and I met, and the connection I felt sent me on a high. I decided to tell my parents. They did not share my enthusiasm. My father made it clear he didn't want me to have a public relationship with these new family members. He swore it wasn't because revealing this to our relatives and friends would make the truth about my conception clear to everyone, but of course that was the reason. He yelled. I held my ground. I felt like I had lived my life playing peacemaker and good girl — the roles in our family that my parents demanded of me — and now here was a kin relationship that could be all mine. Later that day, my dad called back to say he was sorry. It is the only time I remember ever receiving an apology from him. He admitted what was happening was difficult, but he said he was happy for me. I told my father I didn't have any interest in finding the identity of my sperm donor, and that was true. My half-brother felt differently, though, and searching through the web of connections our genetic testing revealed, he found the name of our biological father, who turned out to be a retired doctor. I saw a few Facebook photos of him, and he appeared to me to be someone who liked to hike and fish. I was indoorsy — like the dad who raised me ― so I didn't inherit that. Instead, I got the retired doctor's angular jaw and a smile that tilted slightly higher on one side, suggesting we were up to something. My half-brother reached out to see if our donor would like to meet, but he declined. I understood. Our half-sibling group has since grown from three to 10, and there are probably more of us out there. By that point, our biological father was in his 80s, with children and likely grandchildren. I didn't imagine he wanted the risk of getting to know who-knows-how-many additional progeny. What if we wanted support — emotional or financial? I didn't want anything from him other than an answer to one question: Why did you do it? I wondered if it was it to help couples have children, to feel virile, to make some extra money — I believe sperm donors were paid for their contributions ― or something else. But I could live with not knowing the answer because it was only thanks to my donor that I was living at all. One man was responsible for the beginning of my life, and another for everything that came after. As I got older, I came to see that my father didn't really look to me to make him happy, the way my mother did. He wanted to take care of me, not the other way around. This was why we were sometimes at odds — we both felt more comfortable giving support than receiving it. My mom and I used to joke about 'The Father Book of Knowledge,' since he seemed to know everything about anything. But I truly trusted his advice over any doctor or expert. When I went into labor with my son and was terrified, my father drove four hours nonstop to hold my hand. In his hands, I felt safe. My mother was there for chats about family and friends and the day-to-day stuff of life, but my dad was always the first person I called whenever something went really right — or really wrong. Where was he when I needed him? Always a phone call away. I spent much of my youth concentrating on the distance between my father and me. As I got older, I tried to focus on what brought us together. I'd never been a daddy's girl, but I had grown into a woman who loved her dad. Six years ago, my son and I came upon a newborn bunny under a bush that seemed to have been abandoned. We picked it up and took it home. 'You did what?' my father said, when I called to ask for his advice. 'It would have been better off if you left it there.' I hoped he was wrong, but he was rarely wrong. I put the tiny rabbit on a heating pad like he said to do, but it didn't live for longer than an hour. 'Was it our fault?' my son asked. 'No, baby,' I said, even though I wasn't sure. 'And this way he died with us, in a warm place. And not alone. He didn't suffer.' My dad didn't suffer either, when he died one week later without any warning. At least I hope he didn't. The heart attack was very fast. At least I hope it was. I only just now played the last voicemail message he ever left me. 'This is the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Rabbits,' he said in his joking voice. 'We hear there is a report of bunny abuse... I'm just kidding, Joy Anne. You did the best you could.' I tried. So did he. My mother told me the truth about my conception to help me appreciate my dad more, and it did. My real father didn't love me because I was his biological child. He loved me in spite of the fact that I wasn't. Joy Peskin is a writer with work published in Salon, Glamour, Parents Magazine, Publishers Weekly and Lilith. Her essay 'My Mother, the Imposter' received first place in the Simon Rockower Awards for Excellence in Jewish Journalism in the 'Writing about Seniors' category. Joy is senior executive editor at a major publishing house and a CASA (court-appointed special advocate) for a teen in foster care. For more info, visit Do you have a compelling personal story you'd like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we're looking for here and send us a pitch at pitch@ Related... Mental Illness Took My Dad. After His Death, I Discovered His Secret Past Inside An Old Filing Cabinet. A Dad Tried To Bully Me Into Giving My Seat To His Kid. Here's What Happened When I Said No. My Dad Belittled My Work For Years. Then I Received An Email That Told A Very Different Story. Solve the daily Crossword
