“So someone copied the easiest signature in the building.”
Robles stared at her.
Sofía placed two documents side by side.
“One authentic.”
Then the second.
“One allegedly signed twenty-three months later.”
Judge Vargas studied them.
“They appear identical.”
“Exactly.”
Sofía nodded.
“Not similar.”
“Identical.”
She enlarged the signatures.
“Every curve. Every hesitation. Every tiny ink movement.”
The prosecutor understood first.
“It was copied.”
“Digitally.”
The room erupted again.
Don Chema stared at the signature.
His signature.
His name.
Used like a weapon against him.
For months, he had been asking himself whether he had accidentally signed something years earlier.
Whether age had stolen a memory.
Whether maybe, somehow, this nightmare was partly his fault.
Now he knew.
Someone had manufactured his guilt.
His eyes filled.
