A Fuego Lento
He sat on the witness stand with his back straight and his palms flat against his thighs. The courtroom lights buzzed faintly overhead, the kind of sterile brightness that reminded him of school hallways at night. He wore a dark blazer, clean lines, no tie. Not because he wanted to look impressive—but because he refused to look afraid.
Jill Babin walked toward him slowly, her voice calm, even measured.
“Mr. Landry, can you tell the court what happened on the night of April 12th?”
Quentin nodded once. “I stepped outside my home. It was just after ten. Quiet street. I noticed several individuals in front of my house, near my driveway. One of them appeared to be trying to enter a vehicle that wasn’t his.”
“Your vehicle?”
“Yes. A Tahoe parked in my driveway.”
“What did you do?”
“I came outside with my pistol, called out. Told them to get away from the car.”
Babin took a few slow steps toward the jury box, then turned back.
“And what happened next?”
“One of them turned. Pulled a gun. I took cover behind the garbage bin on the side of the porch and called the police. I heard shots fired shortly after.”
“Were you injured?”
“No.”
“Were you able to identify the individuals?”
“No, ma’am. They were wearing hoodies. One had a ski mask. It was dark.”
Babin nodded thoughtfully, then walked back toward her table and retrieved a printed still from the home security footage. She held it up as she approached again.
“And is it correct that your surveillance camera captured footage of the incident?”
“Yes.”
“In that footage, you can clearly see that one of the individuals is significantly taller than the others?”
“There is someone taller, yes.”
“Roughly six-three? Your height?”
“I couldn’t say exactly. The footage is angled downward. And it’s shadowed.”
“But you would agree the build is comparable?”
“I’d agree the person was tall.”
Babin paused, letting the paper hang by her side now.
“Do you know a young man named Caine Guerra, the defendant in this case?”
“I do.”
“And how do you know him?”
“He was my student. At Carver. Before I transferred to Karr.”
“And you remember him well?”
Quentin hesitated. “I do.”
“So, to summarize, your home was approached by several young men. One of them attempted to steal your vehicle. One pulled a gun. And one—tall, consistent with Mr. Guerra’s build—was captured on your own security footage. The same Mr. Guerra who was later arrested for this crime.”
Quentin didn’t answer. Not right away.
“Yes,” he said, “Mr. Guerra was arrested. But I can’t confirm it was him in the video. That would be speculative at best.”
Babin’s face didn’t flicker. Her voice remained smooth.
“A kid who would let someone shoot at his own teacher isn’t a kid we want back on the streets, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Landry?”
Markus rose at once. “Objection. Argumentative and inflammatory.”
“Sustained,” said the judge. “Jury will disregard the question.”
Quentin looked at Caine.
Not because he was asked to. Because he had to. Because he couldn’t sit there, say those words, and not look the boy in the eye.
Caine met his gaze. Just for a heartbeat.
There was no smile. No expression. But behind the stillness, Quentin saw it—the fear, the weight, the quiet question that had no answer: Did you just help them bury me?
He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just gave a barely perceptible nod.
I see you.
I still see you.
Babin was already returning to her table, heels clicking with certainty.
Markus didn’t stand. He didn’t cross. But as Quentin stepped down, their eyes met—an old, silent language between men who’d both come too far to pretend the rules were fair. A brother’s nod. A thank you. A sorry.
Quentin sat quietly at the edge of the gallery, hands folded in his lap.
He hadn’t lied.
But it didn’t feel like truth, either.
Just another moment in a system that didn’t care how carefully you spoke—only how loudly someone else could twist it.
~~~
Mireya sat in the third row of the courtroom, a space carved out between a lawyer’s leather briefcase and Sara’s elbow. The bench beneath her was stiff and unwelcoming, like it wanted her to leave. Her back ached. Her thighs were sore. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, and even then it hadn’t been much.
Sara was beside her, again. Still. Rosary in hand, fingers moving in a quiet rhythm. Her lips moved silently, eyes closed just enough to signal to the world she wasn’t trying to be here—just trying to survive here.
Mireya stared ahead.
On the stand, a guidance counselor from Carver sat with her hands folded in her lap, describing Caine in a voice that sounded like it came from a distance. Calm. Detached. Practiced.
“...missed several days his freshman year. He had an IEP on file but didn’t often use the supports. We flagged some behavioral issues—lateness, defiance, skipping out during lunch, fights especially after school during football practice.”
Each word landed like a pebble in Mireya’s chest. Not enough to break anything. Just enough to weigh her down.
She stared at the woman and thought about what her own file might say if someone ever pulled it. Tardies. Missing credits. Parenthood. Trauma. And yet here this woman was, trying to make a case out of hallway infractions. A narrative built from late slips.
She crossed her arms and tucked her hands under them, trying to get warm.
Leo had texted her that morning.
you coming back or what? i got something you’d make double on.
She didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure if she ever would.
The phone sat heavy in her purse, muted now. She hadn’t even looked at the screen since they walked into the building. But the message echoed in her head like it had been whispered in her ear.
She glanced sideways at Sara. Her face was a mask—composed, distant, not unfriendly, just far away. That kind of silence didn’t come naturally. It was learned. The result of years of trying to raise a man alone, of being hardened by other people’s judgment, by rooms like this one that always looked at you like you were in the way.
Mireya envied it. She didn’t have that silence yet. Hers cracked under the weight of thoughts she couldn’t say out loud.
Like the one she had earlier that morning while brushing Camila’s hair. The one she tried to shove down before it took root:
What if I had never given him my number?
The thought turned her stomach the moment it arrived. It had nothing to do with love. Nothing to do with blame. It was just the quiet truth of exhaustion—of wondering how many years her life would be this hard, how many decisions she’d have to defend alone.
And then Camila had giggled at her own reflection, clapping her hands like she didn’t know the world was a monster yet.
And Mireya knew—she’d take it all again.
Even now.
She pulled her hoodie tighter around her shoulders and sat straighter, just as the guidance counselor said something about how “some students gravitate toward conflict because it’s the only place they feel seen.”
Sara’s hand froze mid-bead.
Mireya’s eyes narrowed.
The jury didn’t blink.
And she thought: You’ve never seen him at all.
~~~
They spoke in Spanish.
Not out of habit—but by choice. They didn’t need the bailiff by the door understanding a word of what passed between them. The man stood half-distracted, one hand resting lazily on his belt, eyes moving across the walls like the conversation didn’t matter. It didn’t—to him.
“¿Cómo estás?” Sara asked, folding her hands in her lap.
Caine lowered himself into the seat opposite her. The chair creaked under his weight. His wrists, still cuffed, settled awkwardly on the edge of the table. “Estoy aquí.”
“Eso no es lo que pregunté.”
His mouth twitched—not a smile. Just a reaction. His gaze lifted to hers.
From that moment, they stayed in Spanish, words tucked low between them like a folded blanket no one else could reach under.
“They believe her,” he said. “Babin. Every word out her mouth, they just eat it up.”
Sara didn’t answer right away. Her fingers brushed the corner of her purse where her rosary sat coiled. Not out today. No performance. Just her hands, the table, and her son across from her.
“She knows how to sound sure,” she said eventually. “And how to make everyone else sound like a threat.”
Caine exhaled, jaw tight. “The counselor. That therapist. They talk about me like I’m a type. Like they knew what I was gonna be since I was born.”
“They don’t know you.”
“They don’t care.”
He wasn’t angry. That was the part that scared her. He didn’t sound like someone fighting back—he sounded like someone making peace with the loss.
“You’re not done,” she said, firmer now.
Caine’s eyes flicked to the bailiff, then back. “Feels like I am.”
“No estás. Todavía no.”
He let the words hang. Let them touch something in him, even if he didn’t believe them.
Then, after a long silence, he asked, “You think she’s gonna remember me?”
Sara’s voice caught. “Camila?”
“If they take me,” he said. “If I don’t come home. If this really is it… is she gonna remember?”
She stared at him. Saw the boy inside the man. The quiet kid who used to walk on his toes and line up his crayons by color. The one who held his baby like she was made of sugar glass.
“I don’t know,” she said.
And it killed her to say it.
Caine nodded slowly, as if he’d already known the answer and just needed to hear someone else confirm it.
“That’s what hurts the most,” he whispered. “More than the cuffs. More than this place. That I might disappear and she won’t even know what she’s missing.”
Sara reached for his hands. Her fingers found his under the table. Cold. Still cuffed. Still shaking, a little.
“I’ll tell her,” she said. “Every day. I’ll tell her what you did for her. How you loved her.”
He looked down. His chains clinked softly against the edge of the table as his wrists shifted.
“I want her to know I tried,” he said.
Sara nodded. “She will.”
He didn’t say anything else. Neither did she.
They just sat there, with the weight of it pressing in on both of them, quiet in their language, in their blood.
The bailiff cleared his throat behind them. Time was up.
Sara gave his hands one last squeeze.
Then she let go.
~~~
The courtroom air had gone flat again. Not quiet—just heavy. Like even the space between people was tired of holding its shape.
Caine sat still, his cuffs tucked under the table, ankles locked together beneath the defense bench. He didn't move. Didn’t flinch when the judge called the next name. He already knew who it was.
“The state may call its next witness.”
Jill Babin stood. “The prosecution calls Percy Anderson.”
Caine’s jaw locked.
Percy came in slow, shoulders high, mouth flat. His eyes stayed glued to the floor until the deputy motioned him toward the stand. His hair was cut close. His shirt was stiff at the collar. He looked like someone who had been told exactly how to look.
He didn’t glance at Caine. Not once.
Babin stepped forward. Her voice had that same courtroom warmth it always did when she needed someone to sound like truth.
“Mr. Anderson,” she said, “how do you know the defendant?”
Percy swallowed once. “We’re from the same neighborhood. Used to run in the same circles.”
“And were you with him on the night of April 12th?”
“Yeah.”
Babin nodded. “Can you walk us through what happened that night?”
Percy looked out at the jurors. Not at Babin. Not at Caine.
“Ricardo drove,” he said. “He took the red Charger first. That was the plan. Boost it and go. Caine stayed with me. Said we could take another car—the Tahoe parked across the street.”
He paused. “He gave me the gun before we started. Said to hold it. Just in case.”
Caine didn’t breathe.
“And what did you do next?” Babin asked.
“We went for the second car. Caine kept watch while I tried to pop the door.”
“Then what happened?”
“A man came outside. Yelled at us. I pulled the gun. The gun dropped. I grabbed it again. Fired into the air and we ran.”
Babin nodded slowly, then turned toward the jury like she was drawing a line across a chalkboard.
“To be clear, you’re saying the defendant gave you the firearm?”
“Yes.”
“And stood watch while you attempted to steal a second vehicle?”
“Yeah.”
“And did not try to stop the crime?”
Percy hesitated. “He didn’t say no.”
“Did he tell you to fire the weapon?”
“No.”
“But he armed you and participated?”
Percy nodded. “Yes.”
“Did you ever hear him express regret afterward? Try to turn himself in? Explain his role?”
“No.”
Babin turned her body just slightly, letting the moment settle.
“No further questions.”
She returned to her table. The room held still.
Caine didn’t look at Percy. He couldn’t. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even betrayal anymore. It was hollowness. Like something in him had been scooped out and left echoing.
He turned instead to the jury.
Buzzcut man was leaning forward. The woman in the cardigan was staring hard at the witness stand, her hands clasped like a churchgoer. Even the one in the back—the Black woman who hadn’t flinched for anyone—was focused, her arms crossed tighter than before.
Nicole passed a note. Markus read it, then leaned in toward Caine’s ear.
“We’re going to have to burn this down.”
Caine didn’t nod. Didn’t answer.
He just kept staring at the floor.
And he thought about how fast a liar could become the state’s star witness.
How somebody who was only ever Dre’s cousin—a hanger-on they barely tolerated—could sit there now and help bury him alive.
~~~
Markus rose slowly, the soft creak of the bench announcing his steps more than his voice ever would. He didn’t approach the witness stand yet. Just stood beside the defense table, hands clasped lightly in front of him, letting the silence expand.
“Mr. Anderson,” he began, voice steady, “you said earlier that you and my client used to be tight.”
Percy shifted in the chair. “Yeah.”
“Close friends?”
“I mean... not best friends. We just hung out sometimes. Through Dre.”
Markus nodded like that made sense. “Right—Dre. That’s Andre Helaire, right? Your cousin?”
“Yeah.”
“So, to be clear, you were around my client because of your cousin, not because the two of you had a close relationship.”
“I guess.”
“You guess?”
Percy’s mouth tightened. “Yeah. I was around through Dre.”
Markus took a step forward now. Calm. Not looming, just present.
“How many times have you been arrested, Mr. Anderson?”
“Objection,” Babin said, already rising. “Irrelevant and prejudicial.”
Markus raised a hand. “Withdrawn. Let’s try this instead.”
He paced a half step to the left.
“You stated earlier that my client handed you the gun before the attempted carjacking. Did you mention that in your initial statement to police?”
“Yes.”
“And at that point, you were already under arrest?”
“Yeah.”
Markus nodded. “And your statement implicated two other individuals—Mr. Fernandez and my client.”
“Correct.”
“No mention of your cousin.”
Percy shifted. “Dre wasn’t there.”
Markus didn’t blink. “Even though Mr. Fernandez, the one you said drove off in the Charger, was also gone before the second car was targeted?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you implicated him.”
“Because he was there.”
Markus arched a brow. “But not your cousin, who is the only reason you were a part of this group.”
“Because he wasn’t,” Percy said flatly.
Markus let that sit. The jurors shifted in their seats. The older woman in the back leaned ever so slightly to the side, head tilted, listening closer now.
“You were arrested first, correct?”
“Yeah.”
“And you gave your statement immediately?”
“Same day.”
“Before my client was taken into custody?”
“Yeah.”
Markus stepped forward again.
“So when the police were still figuring out what happened, and you were the only one in cuffs, you had a choice: give them something or sit in that cell. You gave them a version that made you look cooperative, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“No?” Markus echoed.
“I told the truth.”
Markus stared at him. “And the truth conveniently erased the cousin you were closest to, while implicating the boy you barely knew outside of group settings.”
Percy tensed. “He gave me the gun.”
Markus nodded once. “Of course. You gave them what they wanted. The quiet one. The easy target. No alibi. No statement. Already locked up by the time you cut your deal.”
He turned to the jury now.
“How many of you, when faced with the full weight of the state, would say anything to save yourself?”
“Objection,” Babin barked.
“Withdrawn,” Markus said without looking her way.
He returned his gaze to Percy. His tone sharpened slightly—still calm, but now lined with iron.
“You’re free now, aren’t you?”
“I’m on probation,” Percy said, almost proud.
“For multiple felony charges—including possession of a firearm as a juvenile, attempted auto theft, attempted carjacking, and unlawful discharge of a weapon—and you’re not in jail?”
“No.”
“Because you cooperated?”
“Yes.”
Markus let it hang.
Then he stepped back.
“No further questions.”
He sat beside Nicole, whose pen was already dancing across the margin of her notebook. She didn’t look up, just leaned slightly toward him and whispered under her breath:
“We’re meeting with Andre Helaire after adjournment.”
Markus didn’t respond.
~~~
The air outside the courthouse felt thick with exhaust and leftover heat from the concrete. Mireya stood by the bench near the flagpole, hands shoved into the front pocket of her hoodie, watching the bustle of lunch recess—lawyers checking phones, deputies smoking, jurors being herded past in clusters like students on a field trip.
Camila was giggling nearby.
Sara had her perched on her hip, bouncing her slightly while whispering into her curls. She made a face—eyes wide, tongue out—and Camila squealed. Sara smiled. Not broadly. Just enough to keep the baby smiling too.
Angela and Paz were seated on the bench behind them. Angela had her legs crossed, one knee bobbing. Paz had her phone out but wasn’t really on it. Mireya walked up slowly and pulled a few folded bills from her back pocket.
“Here,” she said, holding it out to Angela. “For watching her.”
Angela tried to wave it off. “No, girl. You know you need it more than—”
“I said take it,” Mireya snapped, sharper than she meant to. “Please.”
Angela took the money. Paz looked up.
“You okay?” she asked.
Mireya didn’t answer right away. She looked toward the street, eyes following a yellow school bus passing slowly in traffic. The kids inside looked like middle schoolers. Loud, carefree. She watched them like they were in another universe.
Then she said, “She’s being raised by two terrible parents.”
Angela sucked in a breath. “Mireya—”
“I’m serious.” Her voice didn’t rise, but it didn’t shake either. “I fucked up everything.”
Paz opened her mouth, closed it. Angela started to say something again but stopped.
They didn’t have anything that would fix it.
A gust of wind pushed hair into Mireya’s face. She tucked it behind her ear and turned toward Camila.
Sara was still smiling. Still doing the voices. She pointed at a pigeon waddling across the walkway and made a dramatic gasp. Camila giggled harder, twisting to follow it.
Sara didn’t look tired. But Mireya knew she was. She knew that smile was something learned, not something felt. That kind of calm only came from years of practice—years of hiding your own wreckage because your kid was watching.
Seventeen years a mother.
Mireya had only been one for one.
She watched Sara like a student watching a master and hated herself for needing the lesson.
Her arms felt heavy. Her legs, heavier.
Camila turned at just that moment and called out, “Mommy!”
Mireya blinked, forcing herself upright. “Right here, baby.”
She walked over and took her daughter gently from Sara’s arms, pressing her lips to the girl’s forehead and holding her just long enough to feel small fingers press into her back.
When she pulled away, her face was flat. Quiet. Like she’d found her version of the mask.
She looked at Sara. “Thank you.”
Sara nodded, the way tired mothers do—like it cost her nothing, even when it cost her everything.
~~~
Caine had his hoodie up, head low over a worksheet he wasn’t doing. He’d read the same sentence three times—something about chromosomes—but none of it stuck. Pencil in his hand, point worn flat. Not writing. Just holding it.
They were in the dayroom. Late. Everything felt gray.
Tyree was stretched out across the bench, one foot on the table, humming low like he was playing a beat in his head. EJ leaned against the wall, messing with his braids, eyeing the guards’ station without making it obvious. Ramon sat by the vending machine, counting something in his head. Or maybe just thinking. Nobody said nothing for a while.
“You straight?” Tyree asked finally. Like he already knew the answer.
Caine didn’t look up. “I’m straight.”
“Yeah,” EJ muttered, “you always good when you not.”
Tyree smirked but didn’t press. “Whole room feel heavy today.”
Caine turned the page on his packet even though he hadn’t finished the first one.
“You ain’t touched that,” Ramon said, voice low. Not judging—just noting.
Caine didn’t say nothing.
“Whole week been different,” Tyree added. “Since court started. You move different.”
Caine kept his head down. “I’m still me.”
“That ain’t what we said,” EJ muttered.
Nobody pushed further. That was the rule—you don’t ask about what’s being kept close. Not unless you’re trying to fight.
Tyree shifted. “Yo people still coming?”
“Yeah.”
“Then keep your head up, son.”
Caine set the pencil down. Let it roll toward the edge of the table. “Don’t need no pep talk.”
“Ain’t give you one,” Tyree said. “Just saying—don’t let ‘em see you being a little bitch. That’s all they waiting on.”
Ramon finally looked up. “You stay solid, we solid with you.”
Caine raised his eyes just enough to meet his.
It wasn’t a promise. Wasn’t a threat either. Just what it was.
“Long as it ain’t no surprises,” EJ added, his tone easy but his meaning sharp. “You know how this shit go.”
“I know,” Caine said.
That was the most he’d said all day.
Tyree stood, stretched, slapped the back of EJ’s head lightly. “Come on, let’s run spades. I ain’t got all night.”
EJ muttered something about bad partners but followed. Ramon didn’t move.
Caine watched the pencil roll off the table. Hit the floor. Bounce once.
He didn’t pick it up.
Just leaned back, hoodie still up, and stared at the ceiling like maybe if he didn’t blink, he wouldn’t think.
