The judge’s expression hardens, but not before you see something flicker behind it. Annoyance, yes. But also unease. Not because a child has interrupted him. Powerful men are interrupted by children all the time and usually recover easily. No, this is something else. The kind of unease that arrives when a scene begins to move away from the script everyone was relying on.
“Sit down immediately,” Judge Fuentes says.
Alma’s face goes pale, but she clutches the phone tighter. “Before you say she stole the necklace,” she says, “you should watch this.”
Silence falls with such force that even the air seems startled.
Valentina stands halfway, her hand outstretched. “Give me that phone.”
Alma steps back.
It is a tiny movement. A little girl’s retreat. But you know her well enough to see the deeper thing inside it. She is no longer acting on impulse. She is committed now, frightened but committed, and that combination has the strange gravity of a match falling toward spilled gasoline.
“Alma,” Valentina says again, and this time the softness is gone. “Now.”
The judge raps his gavel once. “Order.”
But order has already begun leaking out of the room.
