Chapter 18 - The Trial of the Century
By mid-summer, the federal courthouse in downtown Mexico City was surrounded by a sea of satellite trucks, reporters, and angry protestors holding placards bearing Diego Garza’s face with the word CORRUPT stamped in bold red letters across his forehead.
The trial of former Congressman Diego Garza lasted only four weeks.
The evidence compiled by Andrés’s forensic financial team—backed by government investigators and international banking regulators—was so overwhelming that Diego’s defense attorneys didn't even attempt to argue his innocence. They focused entirely on plea bargain negotiations, desperate to reduce his sentence from thirty years down to fifteen.
On the final day of the trial, I sat in the front row of the public gallery, holding Sofia’s small, warm hand in mine. Sofia was wearing a bright yellow dress—her favorite—and swinging her legs cheerfully against the wooden bench, entirely unbothered by the heavy atmosphere of the courtroom.
Diego stood before the federal judge, his immaculate political suits replaced by an orange inmate jumpsuit that hung loosely on his once-arrogant frame. His hair was unwashed, his face unshaven, and his eyes stared blankly at the floor.
“Diego Garza,” the federal judge read in a solemn, booming voice, adjusting his glasses. “You have been found guilty on all counts of public corruption, embezzlement of historical trust funds, tax evasion, and conspiracy against the state. This court sentences you to twenty-two years in a federal penitentiary without the possibility of parole.”
The gavel came down with a sharp, echoing crack.
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Diego closed his eyes as two federal marshals stepped forward, handcuffed his wrists behind his back, and led him away through the heavy metal side door.
He didn't look back. He didn't look at the gallery. He simply vanished into the dark, heavy iron corridors of justice—exactly where men like him always end up.
