Selena

'Thanks for agreeing to look after her for me, Rita'.

'Gladly', Rita replied, 'my little granddaughter'. Michael had agreed to letting her babysit for us at our home if either of us were busy. She was a stocky and tanned South American woman with a warm aura.

Rita knew Sergio's mother.

Evaldina, a woman who gave birth at the age of fourteen in a Brazilian trafficking home, fled to live freely with her son.

Rita, who was a little older at the time, visited the favela her friend lived in, only to find she was ill equipped to care for her son, and was an alcoholic. Rita took Sergio, aged five, to Bluebridge city.

'I always visited him. I took more care of him than his own mother', Rita explained.

'So why didn't you adopt him?' I asked. She frowned, knowing she was guilty of throwing him into the foster system with little guidance.

'I... was young. I wanted to live my own life, have children of my own', she replied, gazing intensely at my new-born daughter, 'maybe I should've'.

'No, I get it', I sympathised, mother to mother.

'That's why I'm so grateful for Michael. If it wasn't for him, Sergio would've never even entered college and made something of himself. I'm also grateful that you're going to visit him today'.

One Month Ago...

'I can't believe my little rose is a mother of her own', my dad marvelled at my baby. Solange and mom were at the hospital with me, and Michael had left early.

'I'm not a little rose anymore, dad', I mumbled. Solange's focus was making sure she had a good photo for her Instagram feed. I was exhausted. Dad picked up a call from his friend.

Judge Raymond was a revered friend of Dad, who was an established lawyer. Like Solange, mom was a businesswoman. Following Dad's footsteps, I pursued law.

'Dad...' I called in my bug voice, 'can I get Judge Raymond's contact?'

'Sure thing, honey. For what?'

'Career advice... and stuff'.

'Oh honey, you know I'm good for that too'.

'Yeah, I know dad, but I want his... perspective'.

As soon as I had recovered, I went to visit my dad's friend, the Judge. Rain and gloomy clouds set the tone of the day. Upon entering his chambers, he stood reading some paperwork, a scotch in his hand.

'Ah, Selena!' he twisted his attention to me, 'You're early. Come in, honey! You're looking good'.

'Thanks', I whispered, just before he squeezed me with a massive hug, the same kind of hug dad would give me. Very excited to see me as an adult for the first time, his grin was contagious.

'Last time I saw you, you were a little schoolgirl, down here. Now look at you, all grown'. Then we moved closer to his desk, 'so, you're dad told me you wanted my angle on law?

'Yes, but actually...' clutching the small file in my hands, I felt fear churn in my stomach, 'it's about the case you signed an arrest warrant for, Cleodora Martinez'.

'Yes... tell me'.

'The man that was charged for the murder... he erm... he's innocent', as soon as I said that the judge frowned. 'Sergio Valdes. He's chief of the taskforce I'm in, and he was wrongly convicted'.

'Wow', unreceptively, Raymond folded his arms, 'that's quite a big thing you're claiming, honey. How certain are you on this?'

'A-hundred-percent', I fired back. Opening my file of evidence, I laid every piece out on the table. My fingerprint match, recorded audios, photographs of me in the garage. Closely, he evaluated the evidence. 'This should be enough evidence to prove that I murdered her'.

'Selena', he froze. Knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that what I presented to him was highly admissible and compelling, he finally became receptive. 'This is... something nobody would've expected'.

'I know', regretfully, I bowed my head.

'Is all of this true? Did you really... do it?' the judge asked.

'Yes, it's true', I stood, nodding, 'a man is in prison, paying for the crime I committed. All I ask is that you exonerate him'.

'What?'

'Please your honour! This is more than enough evidence to convict me and release him. He's innocent'.

'Does Sergio know you did it?' the judge asked. I gulped. A pertinent question. I knew where it was going. 'Knowing what you did and covering it up would make him guilty of accessory to murder... that is if you decide to turn yourself in'.

'What if Sergio never knew it was me, hypothetically?' I implied. The judge shook his head.

'The man pled guilty very early and denied legal representation. If you turn yourself in, it becomes very obvious that he knew, and took the blame... all for you'.

'Oh'.

'Does your father know?'

'No. If I told my dad, he'd never let me do this'.

'And I think I would be with him on that decision', Raymond concluded, 'I highly recommend that you don't turn yourself in'.

'Your honour – I'm guilty, I –'

'I don't think you realise the consequences will not only affect your chief, but also your family', in deep distress he sighed, palm on forehead. 'Selena, you are the daughter of a reputable lawyer. And this is more than a simple murder of a young black girl, this is political'.

'Your honour –'

'So if it goes out that the daughter of a reputable lawyer is guilty of this murder, after another man was arrested for you, this will not look good for anyone –'

'Your honour!' I proclaimed. The room went silent. He folded his arms. 'You are a respectable man. I take it you hold yourself to high standards when it comes to the law', my voice deepened. Judge Raymond sat in thought. 'you know it's wrong for a man to spend life in prison for something he didn't do'.

'That is correct'.

'Right. And don't you believe in justice, even if it means someone close to you will pay?' I questioned him pertinently. The Judge sunk back in thought. He didn't want to do anything that would hurt Dad's practice, even if it meant stopping me from pursuing justice.

'Honey...' he spoke in a sweet voice, 'nothing is ever as simple as you perceive'. In other words, it was more convenient to the narrative to have a white-male supremacist as the villain... than me, daughter of a renown black lawyer.

'Your honour, if you can't find a way to exonerate him, I'll have to do it my way'.

'Okay', he conceded, 'for your sake... I'll see what I can do'.

The Present...

Arriving at the city prison, I was instructed to wait at the gate. Sergio was escorted to the gate by a chubby prison guard with a moustache, who he appeared to be in conversation with.

As the gate climactically unlocked, Sergio limped out, weighed with great distress. I got out the car and walked towards them.

'Hey', I smiled, lightly patting his shoulder. Caught by the obvious scar streaked across his left eyebrow and eye, my heart grew heavy. 'How are you feeling?' I asked. Gazing right into his weary eyes, I felt his exhaustion. Quickly my smile turned into a frown.

As we walked to the car, he didn't talk, but rather stared suspiciously at me. With a slight limp, he struggled just to sit in the passenger seat. I got in the car.

'Sergio...' my heart was heavier than before, 'what happened in there?' He shook his head at me.

'Nothing'.

'Obviously something happened!' gradually, I rose my voice, 'you're all battered up. It's not –'

'Selena', he snapped, 'please – just drive me home'.

By the time we arrived, he limped stubbornly to his door, rejecting my support. Hate mail brimmed his doorway.

Opening some of the letters, I read the heinous things that were said about our police department, about him.

Sergio trod upon the mail like it didn't exist, then locked himself in his room.

'Hey – come on!' I knocked on his room door. He didn't respond. 'Sergio...?' After the long silence of him ignoring me, I heard sobbing. I imagined he sat, back leaning against the door. 'Are you crying?'

No response.

But as I knelt down, I could hear every quiet whimper. Then I began to cry. Multiple attempts to communicate with him failed each time, which left me no other option but to leave.

'Really? You're back to seeing him?' Michael scorned, having a drink on the couch. That evening, we argued, while the baby was crying.

'Mike, that's – no. I just went to release him', I explained myself. Michael had zero remorse. 'Mike, he's in a dark place right now. He needs help!'

'And you are helping him... how? Giving him a shoulder to cry on? A massage?' Even though Michael showed me grace by holding my hand when it all went down, he was salty. I sighed.

'Do you know how much damage you've caused?!'

'I've caused?!' he scoffed.

'Yes – with your big revenge plan! You fabricated evidence and gave that to Sniper, you got your prison boys to molest him all the time he was in there, and now he's traumatised, forever'.

'Are you forgetting...' Michael walked over, leaning over my ear, 'he paid for the crime you committed'.

'Okay!' I breathed in, trying to drown out all the crying and wailing music my baby made, 'maybe... we're both responsible'.

Apathetically, Michael moved back to his original position, sipping his drink, while I attended to my wailing daughter in the cradle.

'You should see him', I suggested.

A month later...

'Hey!' I knocked on the door for the third time, 'you know the whole department is asking about you. Are you gonna come back to work?'

'I'm not coming back', Sergio murmured.

'It's been a month –'

'Can you leave?' he was abrupt. I sighed.

'I'm not going anywhere', I replied. Leant sideways over his door, I waited... Minutes later, I heard unlatching. He cracked the door open, giving me one eye.

'What is it?'

'I just want to come in and talk'. Reluctantly, he widened the door. That's when the whiff of strong male-body odour hit me. It smelled like he hadn't taken a shower for weeks. Unshaven. An ungodly amount of alcohol bottles filled his floor and coffee table. All his hate mail had been opened and scattered across the living room.

'You haven't seen your new daughter yet...' I started off, 'she's beautiful'.

'Oh... right...' suddenly a small grin grew on his face, 'what's her name?'

'Layla'. We had agreed on the name he suggested for a girl.

'Nice'.

'Sergio... when was the last time you left the house?'

'Erm...' from grin to frown, he shrugged.

'I want to help you, but I can't if you don't tell me anything', I flustered. Self-conscious of his own body odour, he always stood at least a meter away from me. What I was requesting conjured up the traumatic memories of torture for him.

Too weary to even talk, Sergio tilted his body towards the balcony, looking away. Every second I was present, he tried so hard to repress his feelings. Finally, he began removing his t-shirt, then turned his back towards me...

'Oh – my!' I whispered. On his back was tattooed the name Cleodora. The rest of the tattoo art looked like an attempt to cover up hidden symbols and words. An encompassing rose stem of thorns... barbwire... guns... and burn marks was all I could depict. Carefully, I touched the marks.

For a while the room became silent.

'When can I see my daughter...?' he asked. I would never bring her to this hot mess of a house, and to her father in a state of mental vomit.

'Really soon...'