Three — The Courtroom
The guardianship lawyer’s name was Patricia Sánchez.
Forty-two years old, twelve years of family law experience, the kind of person who had chosen this specialty over more lucrative options for reasons she rarely explained to anyone but which were visible in the way she prepared each case. She had spoken with Marcos three times before the hearing. The first time she had come prepared to find what she found in most of these situations — a frightened teenager with vague answers and unrealistic expectations.
She had found Marcos.
After the second conversation she had called her supervisor and said, without exaggeration, that she had a case that was going to be different.
“Different how?” her supervisor had asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Patricia had said. “But different.”
The room was the usual size for guardianship hearings — not the large courtroom, but one of the side rooms, dark wood panels, overhead lighting that hadn’t been updated since the eighties and gave everything a slightly timeless quality. There were seats for the public, which in these types of hearings was usually occupied by no one or by social workers with folders.
Today there were some people Marcos didn’t recognize. A young woman in the second row with long hair. Two people who looked like journalists, though Marcos didn’t know why there would be journalists here.
Tomás was beside him, Tomás’s hand in his, squeezing.
Marcos squeezed back.
“Are you scared?” Tomás whispered.
“Yes,” Marcos whispered.
Tomás considered this.
“Me too,” he said. “But you’re here.”
“I’m here.”
“Good.”
Judge Varela entered and everyone rose and then sat and the proceedings began the way proceedings begin — with formal language that exists to create a framework, to establish that what happens here carries weight, that the words spoken will be recorded and have consequences.
Marcos listened with the part of his mind that could listen.
The other part was with Tomás, monitoring — the temperature of Tomás’s hand, the quality of his breathing, the small indicators Marcos had learned to read over the past months. Tomás was scared but contained. This was what Marcos needed him to be.
Patricia spoke first. She presented the case with the precision Marcos had come to appreciate — without drama, without embellishment, with the facts organized in a way that made their own argument without needing to be underlined. The parents. The dates. The current situation. The options the system had available.
The judge listened with the marble face.
Then Patricia said:
“The older of the two minors has requested the opportunity to address the court directly.”
The judge looked at Marcos.
Marcos stood.
