Chapter 11
RAUL
…present day
Handcuffs close around my wrists as three correctional officers lead me down a dim hallway. My shackled legs struggle to keep pace, each step clipped and awkward, the chain between my ankles biting at my stride.
I've got court this morning for my pre-trial. Part of me is hoping Diego and Mr. Dominguez will be there, but the paperwork is still moving through the system, so there's a good chance I'm getting a court-appointed attorney instead.
We load into the shuttle with a handful of other inmates. None of them are people I've bothered getting to know. I know my time here is temporary, and I'm not trying to make friends in a place built to swallow people whole.
The ride is miserable.
Static crackles low over the van's radio, some song buried beneath the noise and distortion. The air conditioning fights against the heat of all our bodies pressed too close together, mixing with the sour smell of jail soap, sweat, and metal.
Luckily, the courthouse is only about ten minutes away.
We pull up and file out one by one, herded through the back entrance by a mix of correctional officers and police like we're livestock being moved through a chute. There's no room to breathe, no room to think.
We still have to go through screening. The wand buzzes over each of us. The chains would've set off the typical detector anyway.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Mr. Dominguez tapping away at his phone. Diego isn't with him.
My eyes search the crowded hallway for a familiar face, but all I find is bodies, uniforms, and strangers trying to see as much as they can.
Once I make it through security, Mr. Dominguez steps toward me.
"Diego went to the restroom," he says quietly. "We pushed to get the paperwork completed today. I'm going to try something during your pre-trial, and I need you to trust me."
I give him a small nod, careful not to make any sudden movements.
"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.
The prosecutor's expression sharpens.
My stomach twists hard enough to make me feel sick.
A plea deal.
Not freedom. Not mercy. Just a different shape of punishment. A way to trade one future for another and hope the second one doesn't kill me before the first one would have.
Mr. Dominguez keeps going, calm and precise.
He talks about my age, my lack of a prior record, the possibility of cooperation given the emotional aspect from the Plex trial, the fact that this case can be resolved without dragging it through a full trial if both sides are willing to negotiate in good faith.
I'm only half listening. The rest of me is stuck on the word negotiate.
Like my life is a price tag now.
The prosecutor objects immediately. Says the state's position is still under review.
Says there are serious concerns. Says there are matters of public safety, distribution networks, aggravating factors.
The words blur together, but the tone doesn't. It's the tone of a man deciding how much of me he wants to erase.
I keep my hands folded in my lap so nobody can see them tremble.
I can feel Diego staring at the side of my face, but I can't look at him. If I do, I might lose whatever thin grip I have left on staying upright.
Mr. Dominguez doesn't back down. He lays it out again, more carefully this time. I'm young. I'm willing to cooperate. I'm not some hardened dealer the state can easily paint me as. There's room to negotiate, room to avoid the kind of sentence that would swallow me whole before my life even started.
The judge finally raises a hand, and the room goes still.
"Mr. Alvarez," he says, looking directly at me, "do you understand what is being discussed here?"
My throat closes for half a second.
"Yes, sir," I manage.
He studies me for a long beat, expression unreadable.
"Then understand this as well," he says. "A plea is not forgiveness. It is not a promise. It is an agreement, if one can be reached, and the terms will matter."
My pulse jumps at the word terms.
Terms. Conditions. Cost.
Everything in this room has a cost.
The judge leans back, glances at the prosecutor, then back at Mr. Dominguez. "We'll hear whether the state is willing to entertain negotiations. Until then, this matter is continued."
Continued.
Not ended. Not saved.
Just postponed.
The bailiff shifts behind me, and I realize I've been holding my breath. The hearing moves on around me, but I barely hear it. All I can think is that my life is now sitting between two men in suits, waiting for someone to decide whether I'm worth bargaining over.
When the judge calls the next case, I finally risk looking back.
Diego's face is tight, drawn pale with worry. Mr. Dominguez catches my eye again and gives me a look that says hold on.
I try.
I really do.
But all I can think about is Olivia, and the letter I haven't answered, and the fact that the world outside this room keeps moving while mine is shrinking down.