Chapter 3 - The Depths of BetrayalAt two o'clock that afternoon, the atmosphere inside Courtroom 4 of the Benito Juárez Judicial Complex was suffocatingly tense.
The room was filled with polished wood benches, heavy silence, and the sharp scent of legal parchment. Sitting behind the defense table was Patricia Robles, wearing a plain gray jumpsuit provided by the detention center. Her expensive linen suit was gone, her diamond earrings had been impounded as evidence, and her styled hair hung limp around her shoulders. Beside her sat Alejandro, looking utterly broken, staring at the polished wooden desk as if praying for the floor to open up and swallow him whole.
At the defense podium stood Licenciado Eduardo Treviño—a tall, sleek defense attorney with silver hair, wearing an Italian suit and a gold ring.
On the other side of the aisle sat Licensed Attorney Verónica Salazar, flanked by Commander Mendoza. Sitting directly behind them, in the front row of the gallery, was Doña Teresa. She wore a simple, elegant navy blue dress, her gray hair pinned back neatly, a small white bandage covering the wound on her temple. Beside her sat Rosa—a warm, dignified woman in her fifties, holding Teresa’s hand tightly.
The heavy wooden door opened, and Judge Bernardo Ruiz stepped onto the bench.
“Please be seated,” Judge Ruiz commanded, adjusting his spectacles as he opened the thick case file. “We are here for the preliminary bail hearing regarding Case 402/2026: The State versus Patricia Robles and Alejandro Méndez.”
Licenciado Treviño immediately stood up, resting his hands gracefully on the wooden podium.
“Your Honor,” Treviño began, his voice smooth and persuasive. “This entire situation is an unfortunate, deeply regrettable domestic tragedy that has been blown entirely out of proportion by overzealous prosecutors. My clients, Patricia Robles and Alejandro Méndez, are respectable business leaders in Mexico City with no prior criminal records.”
Treviño gestured toward Doña Teresa with an expression of patronizing sympathy.
“What occurred yesterday was a minor domestic argument over household management,” Treviño continued smoothly. “Mrs. Robles accidentally dropped a ceramic dish during a moment of high emotional stress. There was no intent to harm. Furthermore, the accusations of financial fraud are completely unsubstantiated claims brought by an elderly woman who, as medical records will show, has been experiencing cognitive decline—”
THUD.
Judge Ruiz slammed his hand onto his wooden bench, his eyes flashing with irritation. “Licenciado Treviño, be very careful with your characterizations. The court has received no certified medical records indicating cognitive decline.”
“Your Honor!” Attorney Salazar stood up gracefully from the prosecution table. “We request permission to submit immediate evidence that refutes the defense’s claims and demonstrates that the defendants pose an immediate danger to the victim and an extreme flight risk.”
“Permission granted,” Judge Ruiz ruled.
Verónica walked up to the clerk’s desk, handing over a thick binder and a flash drive.
“Your Honor, we submit three key items,” Verónica announced, her voice echoing clearly throughout the courtroom. “First: Certified forensic handwriting analysis from Banco Nacional de Comercio, proving the defendants forged Doña Teresa’s signature on a power-of-attorney deed to secure a forty-million-peso loan to cover their bankrupt agency’s debts.”
Patricia flinched as if she had been struck.
“Second,” Verónica continued loudly, “we submit digital photographs taken by the victim twenty-four hours ago, showing sheets of paper inside defendant Alejandro Méndez’s desk where defendant Patricia Robles spent weeks practicing Doña Teresa’s signature. Included in these files are emails between the defendants explicitly detailing their plan to place Doña Teresa in an unaccredited care facility once the home was stolen.”
Alejandro covered his face with his hands, letting out a low, pathetic groan of despair.
“And third,” Verónica said, turning to point at the gallery, “we submit the sworn affidavit of Señora Rosa Flores, who served as Doña Teresa’s housekeeper for eight years until the defendants forcibly terminated her employment three months ago. Señora Flores has provided evidence that the defendants systematically isolated Doña Teresa, intercepted her mail, changed the home’s locks, and repeatedly threatened her with institutionalization if she did not surrender her real estate title.”
Judge Ruiz slowly flipped through the pages of the binder. As he read the printed emails and examined the forensic reports from the bank, his brow furrowed into deep, terrifying lines of judicial wrath.
He looked up from the papers, his cold gaze settling directly on Patricia and Alejandro.
“Licenciado Treviño,” Judge Ruiz said, his voice dropping into a tone of quiet, lethal severity. “You referred to a forty-million-peso forgery, systematic elder isolation, and a physical strike to an elderly woman’s head as a 'minor domestic argument'?”
“Your Honor... my clients were under immense financial pressure—” Treviño stammered, his smooth composure completely collapsing.
“Financial pressure does not excuse predatory criminal behavior against one’s own family,” Judge Ruiz cut him off sharply. “In light of the overwhelming physical evidence, the severity of the charges, and the clear risk of witness intimidation...”
Judge Ruiz picked up his wooden gavel.
“Bail is denied for both defendants. Patricia Robles and Alejandro Méndez will remain remanded in custody at the Santa Martha Acatitla and Reclusorio Norte facilities pending full criminal trial.”
BANG.
The sound of the gavel echo rocked the room.
Patricia erupted into hysterical shrieks, grabbing Treviño’s arm. “Do something! You said we would go home today! Alejandro, tell them! Tell them it’s your fault!”
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Alejandro didn't say a word. As the court guards grabbed him by the arms to pull him away, he finally turned his head and looked at his mother.
Doña Teresa stood tall in the gallery, her chin lifted high, looking at her son not with hatred, but with a deep, solemn pity. She did not shed a single tear as the iron doors closed behind them.
