“Your Honor,” Sofía said, slightly out of breath, “please don’t issue a ruling yet.”
The judge lowered his gavel.
The prosecutor stood immediately.
“Your Honor, this proceeding cannot simply be interrupted—”
“I know exactly how proceedings work.”
Sofía walked down the center aisle.
Her heels struck the floor with a confidence that made people move aside.
Don Chema stared at her.
She wore a dark tailored suit and carried a thick leather case beneath one arm.
He had seen her dressed professionally before, of course. He kept photographs of all three daughters beside his bed.
But sitting there in his old blue suit, frightened and exhausted, he suddenly remembered another Sofía.
A little girl with two crooked braids sitting at the kitchen table while he tried to explain fractions after working a fourteen-hour shift.
He remembered her first school uniform.
Her first lost tooth.
The night she had a fever and he stayed awake until sunrise with a wet cloth against her forehead.
