The walls were the same gray as everything else in the juvenile center—floor, ceiling, plastic chairs, the table bolted to the ground. A clock ticked too loud above the door, reminding everyone inside that time didn’t slow down, even when your life did.
Caine sat across from a woman in tortoiseshell glasses and a shapeless brown blazer. Her nameplate read H. Mansfield, Disciplinary Officer. She was already annoyed.
“Fighting on your second day,” she said flatly. “That’s impressive.”
Next to her sat a soft-eyed man with a counselor’s badge and a notebook. He looked at Caine like he saw a version of his own son in him.
On the far wall, a CO leaned against the door with his arms crossed, silent and unimpressed.
Caine didn’t say anything. His hands were cuffed in front of him, and the plastic seat under him creaked every time he shifted his weight.
Mansfield opened a folder and flipped through a few pages. “Caine Guerra. Sixteen. First-time intake. You were moved to our general dorm two days and by this morning, you were already in a physical altercation. Tell me why.”
Caine stared at the table.
“You’re gonna have to say something,” Mansfield said. “This is where you get a chance to explain yourself.”
“I ain’t got nothing to explain,” Caine muttered, eyes low.
The counselor spoke up gently. “Caine… we’ve had worse kids come through here and turn it around. But not if they let the place shape them. What happened in that holding cell? Did someone say something?”
“No.”
“Did someone provoke you?”
Silence.
Mansfield sighed and sat back. “Look, let’s not pretend this wasn’t deliberate. You laid hands on another youth and had to be physically restrained. That’s not nothing.”
Caine’s jaw tightened, but still, he didn’t look up.
The counselor cleared his throat. “He’s new. No priors. I’d like to recommend conflict de-escalation sessions and two days of loss of privileges, no lockdown.”
The CO at the wall scoffed lightly. “That kid came in hot. He put the other one on the ground with one swing. That wasn’t fear. That was rage.”
Mansfield tapped her pen. “Two days restricted movement. No dayroom. No rec. No calls except legal. Final warning.”
Caine didn’t flinch.
“Understood?” she asked.
He nodded once.
As the CO stepped forward to cuff him for the walk back, Mansfield looked up one last time. “You keep going down this path, Mr. Guerra, you won’t need a hearing. You’ll just disappear into the system like everybody else.”
Caine stood slowly, letting the cuffs slide around his wrists again.
But just as the door opened, he caught movement in the hallway. A tall older boy—eighteen, built like a linebacker—stood at the window across the corridor, watching him through the glass.
Caine didn’t blink.
Neither did the other boy.
And when the door shut behind him, that cold weight settled in his gut again—like he’d just stepped further into something he couldn’t walk back from.
~~~
The public defender’s office was tucked inside a crumbling brick building with paint peeling from the doorframes and a busted vending machine that buzzed louder than the overhead lights. The kind of place that told you everything before anyone even said a word.
Sara sat stiffly in the chair closest to the desk, purse clutched tight in her lap like it might keep her grounded. Mireya stood behind her, arms folded across her chest, shifting from one foot to the other.
The public defender, a woman in her early thirties with tired eyes and a laptop covered in chipped stickers, clicked through a file on her screen. Her nameplate read: P. Corley, Juvenile Division.
“I appreciate y’all coming in,” Corley said, voice clipped but not unkind. “I wanted to walk you through where we are and what options exist.”
Mireya tilted her head, skeptical. “There’s options?”
Corley hesitated. “That depends on how you define ‘options.’”
She turned the screen toward them and tapped on a document.
“This is Percy Anderson’s sworn statement. It was signed and notarized. In it, he claims Caine was present during the attempted carjacking of Quentin Landry and that he actively participated in the plan.”
Sara’s lips parted, her voice brittle. “That’s not true. He didn’t have a gun. He didn’t—”
“No one’s saying he pulled the trigger,” Corley interrupted gently. “But under Louisiana law, presence and participation in a violent felony—even as an accomplice—is enough.”
Mireya stepped forward. “What about Ricky? Percy named him too, right? He wasn’t even at that house. Y’all know that.”
“We can’t prove that,” Corley said. “The only names on the statement are Caine and Ricardo. Which makes things… difficult.”
Sara’s hands tightened on her purse strap. “So, Ricardo gets punished for being loyal. And Caine gets punished for staying silent.”
“Ricardo’s been offered a deal,” Corley said, her voice flattening. “Testify against Caine and he walks with probation and community service. So far, he hasn’t taken it.”
Mireya’s eyes went wide. “So y’all offering deals to the ones who lie, as long as they lie the right way.”
Corley didn’t answer that.
Sara leaned forward. “Why hasn’t that deal been offered to Caine?”
“Because Caine didn’t talk. And right now, the DA’s office thinks they have enough to make an example out of him. Gunfire was involved. A teacher was involved. And they’re coming down hard on carjackings right now—especially after what happened a couple years ago. And that’s before you take into account the other charges.”
Mireya’s voice turned sharp. “So, he gets thrown away for doing less than the kid who actually talked and ran his mouth?”
Corley sighed. “I’m doing what I can. But I’m not the DA. I’m not the judge. And I’m not a magician.”
Sara swallowed hard. “So, what do we do now?”
Corley clicked her laptop shut. “We wait. We prepare. And we pray that something shifts.”
Outside, the hallway felt hotter than it had on the way in. Mireya pushed through the glass doors and stepped into the sun, shaking.
Sara followed a few steps behind.
At the curb, Mireya pulled a lighter from her pocket and lit a cigarette, her hands trembling.
Sara gave her a look. “You don’t smoke.”
Mireya didn’t look back. “I do now.”
They stood there in silence, watching the traffic roll by.
For the first time, neither of them knew what to say.
~~~
The phone crackled with static as Ricardo pressed it to his ear, tapping in the pin code with impatient fingers. His other hand gripped the bottom of the wall-mounted unit like he needed something to hold him up.
Through the scratched plexiglass of the visitation partition, there was no one on the other side.
He was calling his mother. Again.
It rang. Once. Twice.
Then her voice, weary and breathless: “¿Ricardo?”
“Mamá,” he said quickly. “They moved me again. I’m in a different tier. They said it’s ‘cause of space, but—man, I don’t know. I’m just tired.”
“Are you okay?” she asked in Spanish. “They feeding you? They treating you right?”
Ricardo exhaled sharply. “They feeding us, yeah. If you like sandwiches made with wet paper towels.”
She made a sound—half laugh, half sigh. “Your cousin asked about you. He said he saw something online.”
Ricardo’s jaw clenched. “Let him ask about that puto cabrón. Since he’s the one who threw my name out like it was nothing.”
His mother went quiet.
“I wasn’t even at that house,” Ricardo said, voice rising. “And now I’m sitting in this cage like I shot the damn teacher myself.”
“Keep your voice down, mijo,” she said softly. “Don’t give them another reason.”
Ricardo leaned his head against the plexiglass. “They offered me a deal.”
She didn’t say anything.
“They said testify and I walk. Probation. Community service. Give them some names. All I gotta do is nod my head in court.”
Silence.
“I ain’t doin’ it,” he muttered. “I didn’t sign up for this, but I ain’t folding.”
“You sure, mi amor?” her voice cracked.
“They already think I’m guilty. So, if I go down, I’ll go down honest. I ain’t gonna be able to live with myself if I rat.”
There was a long pause. Then, in the voice only a mother can have when her heart is breaking: “I just want you home.”
Ricardo closed his eyes.
“I know.”
The automated voice cut in: You have one minute remaining.
“They’re gonna make me into something I’m not,” Ricardo said, staring through the scratched plastic. “All ‘cause Percy couldn’t keep his mouth shut and Dre ain’t say a word.”
His mother whispered something in Spanish he couldn’t hear.
“I’m not staying quiet forever,” he said.
The line went dead.
Ricardo hung up the phone and stared at his reflection in the glass, distorted by grime and fingerprints.
He didn’t recognize the kid staring back.
~~~
The cell door slammed shut behind him with a mechanical clunk that seemed to echo straight through his chest.
Caine stood still in the silence.
No windows. No clocks. No sense of the outside world. Just a slab of a bed, a toilet with no seat, and a sink that coughed air when turned on.
The CO paused at the door. Reached into his pocket. Slid something through the tray slot.
“Paper and a pencil,” he muttered. “You know. To pass the time.”
Caine didn’t answer.
The door shut behind him. The lock sealed with finality.
He sat slowly on the edge of the cot, the mattress barely more than a strip of foam. The piece of notebook paper crinkled in his hand. The pencil was no bigger than his finger — dull, half-used, the kind of thing a kid might chew on at the back of a classroom.
For a long time, he just sat there.
Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
It was Dre’s silence that hurt the most.
Not Percy’s snitching — he’d always been shaky.
Not Ricardo’s name being dragged — he’d been thrown into the fire just like Caine.
But Dre?
Dre had walked him into that night. Dre had looked him in the eye and said it was easy money. Dre had vanished the second it got hot. And Dre had let his own cousin throw two boys—his two best friends--under the bus to save himself.
Caine gritted his teeth.
He could take the charges. He could take the lockdown, the food, the silence.
But that part?
That betrayal?
That was the thing eating him from the inside out.
He looked down at the piece of paper, still folded in half on his lap.
At first, he didn’t even know why he reached for it.
But as his fingers touched the pencil, another name floated to the surface, soft and unshakable.
Camila.
He didn’t remember grabbing the pencil. Only that the lead touched the page, and his hand started moving before his mind could catch up.
Hey Camilita—
The pencil scratched in slow, uneven lines. The room didn’t echo anymore. It just listened.
You too little to read this. Too little to know. But maybe one day Mama’ll read it to you. Or maybe she won’t. That’s up to her. But I’m writing anyway because I want you to know who I am in my words…
The words came slow, stiff. But they came.
And for the first time since the door closed behind him—
Caine didn’t feel invisible.
Just lost.
And still trying.
~~~
The elevator ride was silent, save for the soft hum of fluorescent lighting and the muted shuffle of papers in Quentin’s hands. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt and exhaled through his nose, jaw tight.
The doors opened to the fifth floor of the Orleans Parish Courthouse, where the Juvenile Division of the District Attorney’s Office kept its corner offices. The front desk receptionist barely looked up.
“Name?”
“Quentin Landry.”
She scanned a list. “You’re here about the case you’re a victim of?”
“Yes.”
“Have a seat.”
He sat in a row of molded plastic chairs. Across from him, a woman dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. Her teenage son slumped beside her, hoodie drawn up, avoiding eye contact with the world.
Everyone in the room wore the same expression: weary, wary, already grieving something that hadn’t finished happening yet.
Quentin clenched his hands together until his knuckles cracked.
Eventually, a door clicked open.
“Mr. Landry?”
Quentin stood.
“Brent Branch,” the assistant district attorney said as they shook hands. He was trim, mid-forties, graying at the temples, and looked like he wore cufflinks even when he mowed the lawn. “Appreciate you coming in.”
Quentin followed him into a glass-walled office. Framed diplomas lined the back wall. On the desk: neat piles of paper, a well-worn legal pad, and a framed photo of two boys in travel baseball uniforms.
They sat.
“I understand you wanted to speak about the Guerra case.”
“I did.”
Branch opened a folder, eyes scanning the first few lines. “Sixteen years old. First offense. Held on multiple felony counts, including attempted carjacking and aggravated assault with a firearm.”
Quentin’s eyes narrowed. “You know as well as I do how quickly people become suspects when somebody’s looking to cut a deal. And when they look like Caine Guerra.”
Branch gave a tight smile. “That’s true. But deals only get cut when someone gives us useful information.”
“Or believable lies,” Quentin replied. “The only name you’re working off of came from a kid with a reason to lie. A reason to throw someone else in front of the train before it hit him.”
Branch closed the folder, leaning back in his chair. “You sound sure.”
“I’ve taught long enough to know who’s headed for the deep end and who’s still trying to swim.”
“And you’re saying this Caine Guerra falls into the second group.”
“I’m saying you’re trusting the word of someone who was there, who had a gun, and who’s already been offered a reduced charge. That’s not justice. That’s politics.”
Branch raised an eyebrow. “And what would you call it when someone like Guerra doesn’t speak for himself? Doesn’t say who else was involved? Doesn’t deny what happened? I’m sure he has more than a few things he can speak about that’ll get his sentence reduced.”
“I’d call that fear,” Quentin said evenly. “Not guilt.”
Branch tapped his pen once on the file. “Unfortunately, fear doesn’t hold up in court, and I don’t traffic in some sense of ghetto omerta.”
Quentin stood. “Neither does a coerced plea deal from a liar.”
Branch didn’t stop him as he headed for the door.
But just before stepping into the hall, Quentin paused. Pulled out his phone. Dialed.
One ring. Two.
A voice answered: “Hello?”
Quentin’s voice was low. Urgent.
“I need a favor,” he said. “It’s about one of my students. His name’s Caine Guerra.”
~~~
The bedroom was dim, lit only by a soft lamp in the corner and the pale glow from Elena’s television in the other room. The baby monitor flickered green on the dresser. The only sound was Camila’s soft, rhythmic breathing from the travel crib nearby.Mireya sat on the edge of the bed with her phone in her hand, thumb hovering over the screen.
She hadn’t eaten since lunch. She didn’t remember what lunch was. She couldn’t tell if the ache in her chest was anger or grief anymore.
The house was still. Elena had gone to bed early. The dishes were clean. Camila had finally gone down after a half-hour of fussing. But Mireya hadn’t been able to settle. Her brain was stuck in loops, every thought starting and ending with him.
She opened her messages. Typed something. Deleted it.
Then she opened the voice memo app.
Took a breath.
Pressed record.
Her voice came out soft. Uneven.
“Hey. I don’t know if this is stupid. I don’t even know if you’ll ever hear it. But I had to say something.”
She glanced at Camila, who twitched in her sleep.
“You were here. Just a few days ago. And now it feels like you’re on another planet.”
“I saw you walk out the door, and I knew something was wrong. I didn’t say anything. I just let you go.”
“Maybe that’s on me. Maybe I should’ve made it harder for you to keep disappearing.”
She swallowed.
“I keep thinking about how you looked holding her—like she was the only thing in the world that didn’t scare you.”
Her voice cracked then, just slightly.
“You said you love us. And I know that’s true, in whatever broken way you know how to love people. But love is supposed to make people feel safe.”
She paused. Wiped her eyes.
“I don’t know if I can wait for you to become the kind of man who makes us feel that way. But I want you to know… we’re not gone. Not yet.”
“Camila’s okay. I’m okay. But I miss you.”
She took a breath, held it.
“I’m gonna send this to your mom. Maybe she’ll find a way to get it to you. Or maybe I’ll delete it. I haven’t decided.”
The baby stirred. Mireya stood and walked to the crib, gently placing a hand on Camila’s back until she settled again.
“Goodnight, Caine. Wherever you are. Te amaré por siempre.”
She ended the recording.
But didn’t press delete.
Not yet.
Caine be guilty since the day he was born in the eyes of the Yakubian justice system. This is a miscarriage of justice in every sense of the word.