Don Chema sat completely still.
He felt like he had walked into the wrong courtroom.
All his life, he had cleaned other people’s messes.
Now his daughters were cleaning his.
But Sofía wasn’t finished.
Not even close.
She turned toward the prosecutor.
“My father was convenient.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was poor.”
The word hurt.
But she continued.
“He was elderly. Retired. He had worked at the school for thirty-four years, which meant his employee information appeared throughout decades of records.”
She looked toward Chema.
“And everyone knew he couldn’t afford an expensive defense.”
Then she turned toward Robles.
“So someone copied the easiest signature in the building.”
Robles stared at her.
Sofía placed two documents side by side.
“One authentic.”
Then the second.
