"Alright," he says. "We're second on the docket. They try to stagger the court-appointed attorneys every other case when they can, since a lot of them are juggling multiple files. We should be done pretty quickly this morning."
"Okay," I say. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." His expression hardens. "We've got some work to do."
Before I can say anything else, an officer grabs my arm without a word and leads me to a holding cell in the back to wait my turn.
The silence in there is suffocating. Minutes stretch until they stop feeling like time at all.
My mind starts drifting where it always does when I'm trapped like this.
I need to write Olivia back.
But what the hell am I supposed to say? That I'm sorry? That I'm in love with her? What good would that do except confuse her, keep her waiting on something I have no right to ask her for?
She deserves a life. She deserves the freedom I can't even picture anymore. She gets to move through the world untouched, while I sit here in chains, staring at a door that won't open unless someone decides I'm worth listening to.
She's a bird in the sky.
I'm the thing she left behind.
The door opens with a metallic groan, and an officer calls my name like I'm just another file being moved from one stack to the next. My stomach drops anyway.
I step into the courtroom with my wrists cuffed and my ankles chained, the metal clinking softly with every careful step. The room is bright in a way that feels wrong after the dim hallway, all polished wood and stale air and too many eyes. It feels less like a room where decisions are made and more like a place where they're handed down.
My gaze cuts straight to the back row.
Diego.
He's there, sitting stiff as stone with his hands clasped so tight his knuckles have gone white. Mr. Dominguez stands beside him, one hand braced lightly on the bench as if he's steadying himself. When he catches me looking, he gives the smallest nod.
I'm not alone.
That should help more than it does.
The bailiff directs me to the defense table, and I sit under the weight of the room staring at me like I've already been measured, labeled, and sentenced. My mouth is dry. My pulse beats too hard, too fast, like my body thinks it can outrun this if it just keeps trying.
At the front, the judge flips through the file without looking up.
"Raul Alvarez," he says at last.
My name lands flat and heavy in the room.
The prosecutor rises first, polished and calm and ready to cut me apart with legal language. He starts laying it all out in that dead, tidy voice: possession, intent, distribution, quantity, circumstance. Every word sounds clean enough to be about someone else. Every word sounds like a door locking.
I keep my face still, but inside, something is shaking apart.
Then the judge looks toward our side.
"Counsel?"
Mr. Dominguez stands.
He doesn't rush. He never does. That's what makes him dangerous in the best possible way. He smooths his jacket once, glances at the file, and then speaks with a steady voice that somehow makes the whole room feel a little less impossible.
"Your Honor, the defense is requesting consideration of a plea agreement."
The room changes instantly.