—I have proof!
All heads turned at the same time.
In the back row, clutching a worn purple backpack to her chest, sat a seven-year-old girl. Dark-skinned, thin, with simple braids and an old jacket that was too big for her. Her sneakers were worn, but her eyes didn’t tremble.
It was Abigail de la Cruz.
Just seconds before, no one in that room knew her name. But that little girl was about to change everything.
Ricardo let out a contemptuous laugh.
—What is this? Who let this creature in?
The usher took a step to remove her, but the judge raised her hand.
—Wait. Little girl, come here. Who are you?
Abigail swallowed and walked down the central aisle. The echo of her tiny footsteps seemed to be louder than all the lawyers’ speeches.
“My name is Abigail,” she said. “I’m a friend of Don Santiago. And someone is hurting him.”
Laughter erupted in some corners. One journalist even smirked. But the judge did not.
—What evidence do you have?
Abigail opened her backpack with small but determined hands. She took out a leather notebook, two bottles of medicine, and a recorder the size of a lighter.
—He told me to keep this. He told me that if something bad happened, I shouldn’t be afraid.
At that moment, for the first time all morning, Santiago’s fingers barely moved on the armrest of the chair. As if he had recognized the voice.
But to understand how that girl had gotten there, we had to go back a year.
It all started in Chapultepec, one cool October afternoon.
Dry leaves swirled across the ground, and the city seemed to move too fast to notice the solitary figures. On a bench near the lake, Santiago Barragán sat alone, wrapped in a gray cashmere scarf. He watched people pass by: couples, joggers, mothers with strollers, vendors. No one stopped.
A gust of wind ripped the scarf from her neck and threw it onto the path.
Santiago tried to reach her, but his hands didn’t respond in time.
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