Chapter 35
VERA
I suppose I’ll never admit this to the police. My story didn’t begin last Friday, and also not on Thursday. My story began months ago, with a small decision I thought was insignificant. The plot of my life has wound around the seed I planted that day.
The seed of deception, of lies.
That’s why I hired the services of the Counterfeiter.
Money has never been something my family has had the luxury to count on.
Everyone knows that. Mum’s been stuck in retail her whole life, and my father has always been a blank spot in the family photo, never around, not even a letter for Christmas.
I’m the one with the golden ticket: the first to make it to university, the lawyer in the making.
The family’s pride and joy. I had my sights set high: working at Saidi was the dream, and I was willing to do whatever it took to achieve it.
At first, things went according to plan.
I landed a scholarship to Cutnam, just enough to cover most of the coursework expenses, but I could manage.
I aced nearly every class in my first semester, which would allow me to apply for the Chance program.
But then, the store where Mum worked closed its doors for good.
Bills started piling up, and my rent with Gina wasn’t going to pay itself.
So, I juggled classes and a job, doing everything I could to keep us afloat.
It was tough, but I managed. Until I didn’t.
Until I ended up under the tutoring of that professor.
He specialised in Commercial Law II and taught it like a tyrant.
I tried my best, but my best didn’t cut it.
I told myself it was just a setback, that I’d nail it once I got the chance to retake the final test. It had to.
After all, the luxury of failure was not something I could afford.
But sometimes, no matter how much you hustle, the cards just don’t fall your way.
The air in the exam room felt heavy, thick with the kind of heat that clings to your skin.
My shirt stuck to my back, and my hand was slick with sweat, making the pen slip with every line I tried to write.
The clock ticked louder in the silence, but all I could think about was the stifling heat.
Outside, the sun cascaded over the city like a punishment.
39 degrees, a record for this time of the year, they said.
Halfway through the test, the professor’s eyes landed on my paper. He didn’t wait for me to finish. His gaze lingered, and then he motioned for me to follow him to his office.
A bead of sweat trickled down my back as I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, unable to shake the feeling of dread as I waited in front of office number 202-II for almost an hour. Eventually, the professor appeared, with a coffee in hand and a cigarette between his lips.
“Come in.”
The next thing he told me was that I was going to fail the course.
“But…,” I began, my question coming out as a growl, “have you already graded my exam? What did I do wrong?”
He looked me up and down, stopping at my hips.
I was wearing a short skirt; it was too hot for any other kind of clothing.
If I had dared, I would have slapped him across the face.
All I did was uncross my arms and let them dangle lifeless at my sides, trying to make him look away.
Finally, he took the cigarette out of his mouth, crushed it against the ashtray, and deigned to retrieve my exam sheet.
There wasn’t a single mark on it. He hadn’t even reviewed it.
He began reading the first exercise, something about a case study we had seen in class, and after a few lines, he spoke again.
“I’m surprised you can even form a correct sentence in English, given the way you speak,” he mentioned.
My blood boiled inside my veins. Cabrón. Hijo de puta.
“I have no issues with my English, sir,” I said instead.
“Whatever you say, Rodríguez,” he brushed it off, “But this isn’t enough for me. You’re going to fail the course. Unless…”
The next thing I felt was his hands on my thigh, his touch as pressing as red-hot iron, ready to leave its mark on me forever.
He was lucky I didn’t slap him in the face. After I said no, he dismissed me with a wave of his hand, and that was the end of it. Two days later, a red mark appeared on my grade report.
I was killing myself working. I was killing myself studying. And I failed anyway despite my efforts, all because I had the nerve to say no to a man.
That was reason enough for him to fail me.
And that was reason enough for me to cheat. If the system was going to play dirty, then I had no choice but to play dirtier.
I had heard rumours about a certain guy who helped some rich kids who wouldn’t lift a finger to get their degree, so their parents could hang it on the wall of their shiny companies.
Everyone had heard about them. I inquired a bit among the faculty circles (people become very open after a few drinks) and found out how to contact him. The Counterfeiter.
It was much easier than I expected. And much cheaper than the tuition for just one subject at Cutnam Law.
Do I regret it?
No. I did what I had to do. It wasn’t that act that led me to this cell.
That was Enzo.
Enzo Woods is to blame for everything.