The street was quiet in that brittle way it gets just after sunset, when porch lights flicker on but nobody’s come out to sit yet. Percy walked with a plastic bag swinging at his side—chips, a soda, some cough drops for his grandma. He was two blocks from her place, head low, hoodie pulled up, lost in his own thoughts.
That’s when they came out the cut.
Two of them. Masked. One in a faded Nike windbreaker, the other in a black hoodie pulled tight over cornrows. No words at first. Just the sound of sneakers hitting pavement and Percy’s bag dropping as instinct kicked in too late.
A punch cracked his jaw sideways before he could raise his hands. Then a kick to the ribs, and another, until he hit the sidewalk hard and curled up, arms over his head.
“Snitch ass nigga!” one of them shouted.
“Your bitch ass cousin next!” the other added.
Boots found his stomach, his back, his face. Fists hammered down like they weren’t worried who saw. Like they wanted to be seen.
Percy didn’t scream. Just grunted through blood and swallowed teeth.
A screen door slammed open somewhere. A voice shouted: “HEY! HEY! I’m callin’ the police!”
They were gone in seconds. Running hard, like roaches when the lights come on.
Percy lay there a moment, cheek against the rough sidewalk, bag still crumpled a few feet away. He pulled himself up slowly, wincing, legs trembling. His sweatshirt was ripped at the collar. Blood streaked his lip. One eye was already swelling shut.
He limped the rest of the way to his grandmother’s house. She opened the door before he could knock.
“Oh my God—Percy!” she screamed, grabbing his face with trembling hands. “What happened?! Jesus, baby, I’m callin’ the police—”
“No.” His voice was gravel, dry. “Don’t.”
“You need a doctor!”
“I’m fine.” He staggered past her, clutching his side.
She followed, still talking, panicking. But he wasn’t listening.
He went straight to the bathroom, spit blood into the sink, wiped his mouth on a rag. Stared at himself. The mirror barely showed him through the fog of swelling.
Later, in bed, he lay still. His ribs ached with every breath. The house had gone quiet. His grandmother had finally stopped pacing the kitchen.
He stared at the ceiling fan, unmoving in the dark.
“They ain’t gonna stop,” he whispered.
Then he sat up.
Moved slow.
He crossed the room, climbed on the old wooden chair, reached up to the top of the closet. Pulled down the dusty red Nike shoebox he hadn’t touched in months.
Inside, wrapped in a bandana: a .380.
He held it for a long moment.
Not trembling. Not hesitating.
Just remembering.
~~~
The interview room inside OJC didn’t pretend to be humane.It was the kind of space that made time feel thick—concrete walls painted in institutional gray, a buzzing fluorescent light overhead that flickered just enough to keep your eyes raw, and a vent that hummed with a steady, mechanical drone. No clock. No window. No sense of morning or night. Only the cold.
Caine sat in the middle of it all, shackled at the wrists, the steel biting into his skin with every twitch of movement. The metal chair under him felt like ice, seeping through the fabric of his orange jumpsuit. His shoulders were square, but tension bristled along his neck and down his spine.
The door opened with a low mechanical groan, and in walked Jill Babin, the Assistant District Attorney who’d stood across from him in court and painted him like a threat in human form. Her heels clicked softly across the linoleum floor, her navy blazer crisp and her blonde hair coiled into a low bun that didn’t shift when she moved.
She sat across from him and placed a thin manila folder on the table like it was sacred.
Detective Leary, from NOPD’s gang task force, followed behind. He didn’t sit—just leaned against the wall beside the door, arms crossed, thumbs hooked in his belt. Watching.
Babin didn’t speak right away.
She took her time opening the folder. Turned a page, though she didn’t seem to read it. Adjusted it slightly, tapping the corner once to straighten it. Her silence wasn’t passive. It was performance. She wanted the air to fill with dread before her voice cut through it.
“You’ve been here… what—nineteen days now?”
Caine didn’t answer.
His eyes were fixed on a brown water stain above her head—shaped like a crescent moon. He’d started staring at stains a lot lately. They didn’t lie to you. They didn’t twist their faces into fake sympathy.
“You’ve missed two court dates,” Babin continued, flipping another page, “and guess what? You’re not seeing a judge anytime soon.”
She looked up now, her smile paper-thin.
“We’re backed up. Dockets full. Your public defender couldn’t even be here today—surprise, surprise.” She gave a casual shrug. “Could be weeks before your next hearing. Months, if you keep playing it this way.”
Caine glanced down, just for a second.
His jaw tightened until the muscle flexed like a knot. Fingers twitched once, then again—restless beneath the weight of the shackles.
“You’re not the target, Caine,” Babin said, her tone softening like a well-rehearsed lullaby. “You know that. You tell us something—what happened that night, who was holding what, even wo you bring the cars to—I can make this go away.”
She leaned in now, elbows on the table, eyes steady.
“I can get you home. Back to school. Back to your little girl.”
Camila.
The name hung in the space like fog, even though she hadn’t said it.
Still, Caine said nothing. He just blinked slowly and let her words pass over him like static.
“Tell us what you know. Give us something real,” she said, “and you’re free.”
He looked at her then.
And she saw it.
Not fear. Not panic. But fury—deep, smoldering, coiled tight behind his dark eyes like a storm with nowhere to go.
But still, he didn’t speak.
He wouldn’t.
Babin sat back, arms folding now, expression tightening. The lullaby was over.
“Otherwise…” she said, dragging the word out like a thread, “they’ll bury you. Slowly. Quietly. The way they always do.”
Her voice hardened.
“You think the system’s gonna save you out of principle? Look around. You think this place is made for saving?”
She jabbed her index finger lightly against the file. “This is going to go to trial if you don’t make a deal. Then you’re fair game. Adult charges. Adult time.”
She waited. Caine didn’t flinch.
“Look at me.”
He did.
No blink. No fear.
“Each day you stay quiet, that clock ticks louder,” she said. “And eventually, someone’s gonna run out of patience and think you’re talking anyway.”
A pause.
“And if that happens, well… maybe something bad finds its way back to your family. Or maybe we just find something new. Something that adds time.”
She closed the folder slowly, deliberately.
“You’ll wish you had talked when it was still a choice.”
The room felt smaller now. Air tighter. Caine could feel his heart pounding, but his face stayed calm. Still.
He had nothing to say to these people. Not today. Not ever.
Babin stared at him a second longer, then nodded toward the deputy waiting at the door.
The cuffs rattled as Caine was pulled to his feet. His legs ached from sitting too long. But he stood tall, taller than he probably should have.
He didn’t look back.
Not at the folder.
Not at the ADA.
Not at the man by the door who still saw him as a number in a jumpsuit.
He walked out with silence pressing against his back like a blade.
And Jill Babin, lips pursed, watched him go—knowing the next step wouldn’t be legal. It would be procedural.
Transfer. Isolation. Pressure.
The clock was ticking.
~~~
Mireya sat on an upturned milk crate next to the dumpster behind the taqueria, legs folded tight, her back against the brick wall still warm from the afternoon sun. The scent of grease and grilled meat hung in the air, but she wasn’t hungry anymore. Just tired.She picked at a small piece of chicken folded into a single corn tortilla—no salsa, no lime. One of the cooks, Miguel, had slipped it to her with a nod and a look that said I ain’t judging. He didn’t have to say anything. Everyone around here knew. Knew she’d been pulling doubles. Knew about Caine. Knew about Camila.
The tortilla was stale. The chicken dry. But it was something.
She was chewing slowly, almost absentmindedly, when she heard the bass first—rattling the frame of a black Camry as it crept into the lot. The tires crackled over loose gravel and broken glass.
The car eased to a stop, and out stepped Kike—white tank top, slim gold chain, his hair twisted up tight, the tattoos on his forearm visible as he adjusted his belt. Two boys hopped out behind him, both laughing about something that wasn’t funny, both moving like they didn’t have to watch their backs.
Kike clocked her instantly.
“Damn, Reya.” He whistled low as he walked over, leaving the other two by the car. “You really eatin’ next to the trash?”
She looked up, brushing crumbs off her lap, expression flat.
“Was the only seat left,” she muttered.
He smiled wide like he hadn’t heard the edge in her voice and squatted beside her, resting his elbows on his knees.
“You good?”
She didn’t answer right away. She looked past him, toward the glowing window of the taqueria where orders were being passed out on styrofoam trays.
Finally, she said, “He’s still in.”
Kike nodded slowly.
“Damn. They really tryna break him, huh? You think he’s gonna talk?”
Mireya didn’t respond. She just looked down at the last bite of tortilla in her hand, then tossed it toward the dumpster without finishing.
Kike reached into his pocket, pulled out a thick roll of cash, and peeled off a couple of twenties. He held them out to her without saying anything.
She stared at the bills.
“I’m good,” she said, voice low.
“I ain’t ask if you was,” he replied, still holding them out. “Take it, prima.”
She hesitated, then took the money with quiet fingers and folded it into the front pocket of her jeans.
“Gracias.”
Kike stood up, brushing dust off his knees.
“I know someone who’s lookin’ for an office clerk. Real talk. Pays under the table. Some warehouse shit but clean. You want it, I’ll make the call.”
Mireya looked up at him. Her eyes were tired, but there was something like hope buried in the weariness.
“I’d appreciate that.”
He smiled again, this time more genuine.
“You know I got you,” he said, patting her shoulder as he turned and walked toward the restaurant.
The other boys followed behind him, cracking jokes as they disappeared into the bright doorway, laughter echoing behind them.
Mireya sat alone a moment longer, the money in her pocket and the smell of meat still clinging to her hair, watching the sky turn orange over the parking lot.
~~~
The hum of the air conditioner in Markus Shaw’s office was the only sound for a full minute before the door creaked open.Nicole, one of the paralegals in his office, stepped in, her badge clipped to the lanyard bouncing lightly against her chest, a slim envelope pinched between two fingers like it might disintegrate. Her face said everything.
“Got the file,” she said.
Markus took it from her without standing. The envelope was light—too damn light for what it should’ve contained. He flipped it open at once, his fingers moving quick, trained.
Intake report. Booking photos. Incident summary. Barebones arrest affidavit. A few scribbled notes from an officer who hadn’t even bothered to get the names right. That was it.
He looked up. “This all they sent?”
Nicole nodded, already bracing.
“It took this long to get you that,” she said. “And the motion for new counsel? Clerk didn’t even file it until yesterday.”
Markus exhaled sharply through his nose, set the file down. The edge of his desk thudded when his knuckles tapped it.
“They’re running the clock.”
He stood, his height casting a long shadow across the desk as he paced to the window. Outside, the skyline of downtown New Orleans shimmered in the late light. Bright enough to look alive, quiet enough to feel false.
“Standard play,” he muttered. “You stall just long enough. Let the kid rot. Make him feel forgotten. Then you offer him a way out—at someone else’s expense.”
He turned back to Nicole.
“We’re not doing that.”
She nodded.
“Want me to draft the bond motion?”
“Do it now. File it first thing tomorrow. And while you’re at it, file for full access to discovery.” He gestured to the file with a flick of his fingers. “I want every scrap they’ve got. They think just because he’s sixteen, no one’s looking?”
Nicole hesitated. Then:
“My friend in the DA’s office texted me back. Off the record… they’re pushing gang enhancement charges.”
Markus froze. For just a moment. Then he walked back to the desk and sat down slowly, dragging the file toward him.
He stared at Caine’s intake photo. The kid’s face blank, eyes dead but sharp. Not wild. Not lost. Just waiting. Like he’d learned something about the world no sixteen-year-old should know.
Markus’s voice came quieter this time.
“He’s just a little older than my son.”
Nicole didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.
Markus closed the file carefully and set his hands on top of it.
“If we don’t force their hand now…” He looked up. “They’re going to slow-walk this until he breaks. And if that happens, it won’t just be on the system.”
He paused.
“It’ll be on us too.”
Nicole nodded. She was already pulling out her laptop.
Markus leaned back, eyes fixed on the ceiling for a moment like he could see through it—past the floors of bureaucracy, past the courts and holding cells and lost hours.
Then he said, quietly, as much to himself as to her:
“Let’s make it hurt for them to forget this boy’s name.”
~~~
The line was moving slow, like always—orange jumpsuits shuffling toward the double doors that led to the rec yard. The only thing more worn out than the kids in line was the floor beneath their shoes.Caine stood in the middle of it, hands behind his back, eyes glazed but alert. He wasn’t looking for trouble. Just air. Just space. Just thirty minutes without concrete walls pressing in on him.
Then he heard it:
“Guerra!”
Two COs stepped into the hallway—one tall and rail-thin with a hooked nose, the other broad with a gut that strained against his duty belt. Neither looked like they wanted to explain anything.
The bigger one jerked his chin.
“You. Grab your stuff.”
Caine blinked.
“I’m on the rec list.”
“Not anymore.”
There wasn’t a reason. There didn’t have to be one. He glanced at the other boys in line. A few of them turned away. One smirked.
Caine nodded once, slow, and peeled off.
He returned to his cell, packed the little he had—state-issue toothpaste, a letter from Mireya folded six times, two pencils, a notebook half full of words he hadn’t said aloud since he got inside.
By the time he was led down the east wing corridor, he could already feel the change.
The air was heavier. More humid, somehow. The lights overhead flickered more often, and the tiles underfoot were cracked and stained. This pod—E3—was older, colder. The vents clanged instead of humming. The boys inside didn’t play cards or talk loud. They just watched.
Predators.
Not the kind from the block.
The kind who’d already learned how to survive inside.
The gate buzzed open. The CO motioned with his baton.
“Bunk seven.”
Caine stepped in. Eyes followed him—half curious, half measuring. No one said a word as he moved across the floor, climbed to the top bunk, and sat.
He didn’t unpack. Didn’t lie down.
Instead, he pulled out the notebook and pulled out the nub of a pencil, setting it against the page like it could anchor him.
I never knew my father.
The words came out in ink before they came out in thought.
Below him, a voice cut through the stillness.
“Qué pasa, pretty boy? You copping a plea as soon as you get in the car?”
Caine didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look down.
He answered back in Spanish—low, clean, sharp.
“Sigue hablando y vas a despertar sin pinche dientes.”
The pod fell still. A few boys chuckled. The voice didn’t answer back.
From a bunk across the row, another teen—older, skin pale under tattoos—spoke without looking up.
“Keep your head down in here. You ain’t got no friends in this car.”
Caine nodded once.
“I got it.”
And he turned the page, pressed his pen back to the paper.
I never knew my father. Not really. Just stories. Just silence. Just that space at the end of my name where something else should’ve been.
Sometimes I wonder if he ever looked for me. Or if I was just born too late to matter. Wonder what if he thinks about where I am.
You won’t have to wonder who I am.
He kept writing as the voices fell away.
As the pod turned inward.
As the cold settled in for good.
~~~
The kitchen table looked like it belonged to someone drowning.Unpaid bills were spread beside an old checkbook with more scratch-outs than numbers. Sara’s phone sat face-down next to a cup of cold coffee. On her cracked laptop screen: a list of criminal defense attorneys, most with starting rates that made her chest tighten.
She rubbed her eyes, trying to push back the headache. Tried to focus. Tried to breathe.
Where was she supposed to come up with that kind of money? What kind of mother couldn’t afford to save her own son?
The front door opened with the groan of a tired hinge.
“We’re back!” Hector’s voice called through the house, followed by the scuff of boots on tile.
Sara didn’t answer.
Hector entered the kitchen with his son, Saul, trailing behind—fifteen years old, lean and quiet, earbuds in, hoodie half-zipped. He gave Sara a respectful nod on his way to the fridge.
“Go to the room for a bit,” Hector said, not unkindly but firm.
“I’m just getting water—”
“Now, Saul.”
Saul shot his dad a look, then glanced at Sara, who gave a tired smile. He grabbed a cup, filled it from the sink, and walked out without another word. The hallway swallowed the sound of his footsteps.
Hector waited until the boy’s door clicked shut before speaking.
“I talked to Ma.”
Sara didn’t look up.
“She said if Caine gets out, he can’t come back to the house.”
Sara stiffened, lips pressing into a line.
“That’s her grandson.”
“And Saul’s her grandson, too.” Hector stepped closer, resting one hand on the back of a chair. “You know how much she loves that boy. But she’s scared, Sara. Hell, so am I.”
Sara stood slowly, the chair behind her scraping back.
“You’re talking about my son like he’s a threat to his own blood.”
“He is.” Hector’s voice was level, too calm to be cruel. “You know what people are saying. You know what the papers said. I held that boy when he was born, Sara, but love doesn’t mean I trust him anymore.”
“You think they don’t lie?”
“I think Caine made his choices.”
Sara stepped forward, eyes shining now—not from tears, but from something deeper. Rigid.
“You would put my only child out on the street?”
“I’d protect mine,” Hector said. “That’s what I’m doing. Caine brought danger into this house. He didn’t just fall into it—he brought it.”
Her hands balled into fists at her sides.
“He’s sixteen. You think he chose this? You think he got a fair chance?”
“Dios mios. Of course, he chose it. But you think any of that matters to the people who’re coming after him?”
That quiet stung more than yelling ever could.
Sara turned away, bracing herself against the counter. The faucet dripped. One… two… three.
“As long as I’m breathing, he’s not going to be homeless.”
Hector watched her for a moment.
“It won’t matter,” he said. “He’s not getting out.”
Sara turned, eyes hard.
“He will.”
“Stop being so naïve.”
He started to walk off, but paused in the doorway. His words were soft, almost an afterthought.
“Nada se olvida. Everything comes to the light.”
He left without looking back.
A moment later, Saul reappeared in the doorway, still holding his cup. He hovered, then stepped in slowly, refilled it at the sink, and glanced at his aunt.
“You okay, Tía?”
Sara nodded, barely. Her lips trembled as she turned her back to him.
“I’m fine, Saulito.”
He nodded and left, quiet again.
When the door shut behind him, Sara slid back into her seat, pulled the laptop closer, and stared at the screen. The attorney fees hadn’t changed. Neither had her bank account.
She buried her face in her hands.
And stayed there.
