All that’s left is for me to deliver my closing arguments. I sense this jury will refuse to punish Andrés Segovia another minute. I see the faces of the women on the jury. They reach out to him. I saw their look of horror as I showed them William Hart’s trophies. Sad little boys looking up at the camera.
The DA called. He said, “He does a year. We’ll call it a day.”
I hung up the phone. Quietly. I’ll invite him to lunch. And invite Andrés to tag along. Afterward, I’ll give the bastard the check.
When I put Andrés on the stand, he appeared stoic, almost arrogant. He was trying too hard to hold himself together. I could see the trembling in his hands, the slight quiver in his voice. All this time. All this waiting—it’s worn him down. He’s changed in these ten months. He smiles more. At times, he almost seems like he’s become a boy.
He knew all the questions I would ask. We practiced. Practiced and practiced and practiced. And yet, for all our practicing, even I was not prepared to hear the rawness of his words. It was as if I was hearing him for the first time. I heard in his voice a man who had decided that he was going to live. He had learned how to spell out the word enough. And so he told us everything. Of how it was he came to live in Juárez. Of how he fell into the hands of a man named Homero. Of how he was forced to become food for hungry men like William Hart to feed off. I saw the anguish on the faces of the men and women sitting on that jury. They were brought to tears at what they heard. They won’t convict.
How many times have I closed in front of a jury? At least a hundred times. Twice that, for all I know. And yet tonight, I feel as if I’ve never done this. All night, I’ll pace and think. I’ll prepare my words. I’ll organize my thoughts. I’ll write them down. I’ll practice, practice, practice. This matters more than I can bear.
Grace says she’ll pray tonight. Grace, pray that God will send his light into my heart. Pray your Catholic God will give me words.
I was thinking of Silvia today. She was born with a compass. I wonder how you get to be that way. I’ve always felt so lost. I hated Dave last week. We were going over my testimony. Going over it and over it and over it. And I was so fucking sick of it all, sick of recalling and recalling and recalling. When do I get to forget? But I didn’t hate Dave for making me remember. I hated him for giving me this hope. He’s so convinced I’ll walk. And if I don’t? Five or ten or fifteen years in jail? But I killed a man. I killed a human being. Dave shakes his head. Andrés, I don’t believe that. He wanted to die—can’t you see that? That man committed suicide. He could’ve saved himself. At worst, you hit a man. At worst, it was an accident. He gives me hope.
Grace, too, gives me hope. She is still so beautiful. She shaved her head, and I can see the sun there.
When I was on the stand, I felt alive. It was strange and sad and wonderful, and I was talking. I remembered that I had always felt like I was someone’s secret. And I knew that I had never stopped feeling like that. But I wasn’t Mando’s secret anymore. I wasn’t Yolie’s secret. I wasn’t Homero’s or William Hart’s secret.
I was Andrés Segovia. I was a boy who wanted to go to school and ride a bike. I wasn’t anybody’s goddamned secret.