The chorus—Médez took a step forward, his boots snoring on the concrete, his eyes fixed on Ramiro, or on the pineapple, which remained motionless in an appropriate manner, as if he had rehearsed that moment in silence.
Ramiro’s breathing came in short bursts, his cuffed hands trembling against the metal ring bolted to the table, while Salomé held her gaze with a firmness that her son should never learn.
—What did he tell you? —Médez asked, not with cruelty, but with the authority of a man who had buried doubt under decades of procedures and signatures on papers that ended lives.
Ramiro swallowed hard, tears clinging to his eyelashes.
“He said the man with the scar was there that night. He saw him. He remembers him.”
A murmur rippled through the guards. The social worker finally looked up, confused, glancing between father and daughter as if trying to decide if this was grief or something far more dangerous.
—There was no other man —the senior guard spat. —The case is closed. The evidence was clear. Fig3rprits e the g*p. Bl00d e your clothes.
Salome slowly turned her head towards the guard, her small fingers still clutching her father’s sleeve as if letting go would erase the courage she had gathered.
“There was another man,” she said in a low voice. “He arrived after Mom opened the door. He was wearing gloves. He argued. He pushed her.”
Ramiro squeezed his eyes shut, as if reliving a nightmare he had already survived too many times, his voice breaking between his clenched teeth.
“Why didn’t you say this before?”
The question hung suspended in the air, heavier than the chains. Salome looked at her shoes, worn at the toes, and for the first time seemed to be eight years old.
“I tried,” she whispered. “But they told me I was confused. That children imagine things. I got scared. They said you’d say something if I kept talking.”
Méndez felt something move inside him, a letter fracture along a line he had ignored for five years, telling himself that the system was imperfect but necessary.
—Who told you that? —he asked, kneeling down to her height, his voice now lower, stripped of its manner and habit.
Salomé hesitated. Her eyes moved toward the social worker and then back to Méndez.
“The policeman with the gold watch. He said he had to protect you,” I said, remaining silent.
Ramiro’s head jerked up.
“Gold watch?” His voice was harsh. “There was a detective on the scene. Ortega.” He kept touching his wrist.
The room seemed to shrink, as if the walls themselves were listening. Méndez stood up slowly, his mind running among archived files and faded photographs.
Detective Ortega had testified with certainty. He had described Ramiro’s panic, the weapon in his hand, the pattern of violence consisting of a shot at close range. He had dreamed of the victim.
—Salomé —said Méndez carefully—, what exactly did you see that night?
She closed her eyes, breathing like children do when they try to remember a dream before it dissolves.
—Mom was angry. She was yelling for money. Then someone knocked on the door.
—¿Tυ padre? —iпterrυmpió υп gυardia.
