Chapter 7 - Central Booking
The lobby of the Bexar County Central Substation was always loud, smelling of cheap floor wax, old sweat, and industrial detergent. But at 11:48 a.m., a specific silence fell over the front desk as Rodrigo Harrington walked through the double glass doors.
He was accompanied by two white-haired defense attorneys from the city's highest-priced criminal law firm. His hands were loose at his sides, but his face was completely bloodless, his eyes fixed on the gray terrazzo floor as the desk sergeant looked up from his computer screen.
"Rodrigo Harrington," the lead attorney said, throwing a certified copy of a self-surrender agreement onto the counter. "We are here to execute a voluntary booking for a Class A domestic violence warrant."
Detective Mendoza stepped out from the side corridor, his hands tucked into his pockets, his face expressionless. "You're twelve minutes early, Mr. Harrington. We appreciate the punctuality."
I stood near the vending machines at the back of the lobby, my jacket unbuttoned, watching the process unfold. Rodrigo didn't see me until the sergeant told him to remove his belt and his silver watch—the expensive one that matched the diamond cufflinks he had worn while pulling my daughter's hair.
As he handed his belongings over the counter, his eyes drifted across the room and locked onto mine.
The anger was still there, buried deep behind the panic, but the dead-eyed certainty was gone. For the first time in his thirty-four years, Rodrigo was looking at someone he couldn't bribe, someone he couldn't intimidate, someone who didn't care about his last name or his uncle's court appointments.
"This changes nothing, Salgado," he muttered, his voice shaking slightly as the deputy turned him around to click the heavy steel handcuffs behind his back. "My lawyers will have me out on personal recognizance before the ink on the mugshot is dry. Your daughter will still have to face me in a deposition. I’ll make sure she stays on the stand for days."
May you like
"You won't be seeing a deposition, Rodrigo," Detective Mendoza said, pushing him gently toward the heavy iron security door leading to the cell block. "The DA just upgraded the charges to continuous violence against the family based on the logs and medical corroboration we found from her pharmacy purchases. The judge set your bail at five hundred thousand cash. No bond. And since your corporate accounts were frozen by the state auditor twenty minutes ago, I suggest you get used to the smell of that orange jumpsuit."
The iron door slammed shut behind him, the heavy mechanical lock dropping into place with a solid, echoing thud that carried all the way through the concrete floorboards.
