Chapter 6 - The Interrogation RoomThe holding cell at the Guadalajara municipal precinct smelled of damp concrete, old sweat, and utter despair.
Mariana sat huddled on a narrow metal bench, her silk robe now stained and wrinkled, her hair tangled around her face. Her eyes were red and swollen from hours of uncontrolled sobbing. Across the metal table sat a public defender who looked like he wanted nothing more than to crawl out of the room.
—Look, Señora Morales, I’m being completely honest with you —the lawyer said, flipping through a thin file with disinterest—. The charges are federal. Grand larceny, fraudulent conveyance of trust property, and conspiracy. The prosecutor is throwing the book at you because the victim—or rather, the primary beneficiary of the trust—is pressing full charges without option for bail.
—Who?! Who is pressing charges?! My mother?! —Mariana shrieked, slamming her fists onto the metal table so hard her knuckles split and bled—. I’m her daughter! She can't do this to me! Parents don't send their children to prison over a house!
—Well, according to the magistrate, it’s not just your mother —the lawyer sighed—. The estate is managed by Mateo Silva’s corporate trust. And Doña Elena Cárdenas signed every single affidavit authorizing immediate prosecution without clemency.
The heavy steel door of the interrogation room swung open with a loud, metallic clatter.
A female guard stepped inside, her face rigid.
—Stand up, Morales. You have a visitor.
Mariana’s breath caught in her throat. Hope flared momentarily in her chest. It’s mom. She came to save me. She couldn't really let me stay here.
She stumbled to her feet, rushing toward the glass partition of the visiting booth, her fingers clawing at the metal grate.
—Mom! Mom, please! —she screamed as a woman in a dark trench coat walked in from the corridor and sat down on the other side of the glass.
It wasn't Elena.
It was a sharp-looking corporate attorney holding a thick manila folder. She sat down calmly, picked up the intercom phone, and slid a single sheet of paper through the small slot at the bottom of the glass.
—Sign this, Mariana —the lawyer said coldly through the speaker.
Mariana stared at the paper through her tears.
—What... what is this? Where is my mother? Why isn't she here?!
—Your mother is finishing her coffee at her estate in San Jerónimo —the lawyer replied flatly—. And that paper is a full, unconditional disclaimer of inheritance. You legally renounce all rights, past, present, and future, to the Cárdenas estate, any financial accounts, and any claim to Doña Elena’s property. Forever.
Mariana gasped, staggering back against the wall of the booth.
May you like
—Renounce everything?! But I’m her blood! I’m her only heir! If I sign this, I’m left with nothing! Absolutely nothing!
—Correct —the lawyer replied, her voice devoid of human warmth—. Exactly like your mother felt when you locked her out of her own home with a suitcase and a new deadbolt. Sign it by midnight, or spend the next twenty years sharing a cell with your husband. Your choice.
