Chapter 9 - The Settlement of Accounts
Four months later, the San Antonio heat had faded into a cool, crisp November.
The 4th Court of Appeals had a new presiding judge; Ofelia’s brother had quietly resigned three weeks after the Texas Rangers opened their preliminary inquiry into his campaign ledger. De La Vega Concrete Holdings had been sold to an international infrastructure firm to pay off the massive back-taxes and municipal penalties Rodrigo’s discretionary accounts had incurred.
The divorce was finalized in a closed courtroom on a Tuesday morning.
Rodrigo sat at the defense table, wearing a plain gray suit provided by his attorneys. He had lost twenty pounds, his beard was gone, and his eyes had the hollow, flat look of a man who had spent the last one hundred and twenty days listening to the hum of industrial prison fans. He had accepted a plea deal: five years of deferred adjudication, a mandatory year in an inpatient domestic violence rehabilitation facility, and the total forfeiture of his equity in their marital estate.
Ofelia sat behind him in the gallery, entirely alone. No pearls today. Just a plain black coat and an expression that showed she had finally learned what it felt like to breathe borrowed air.
Valeria stood at the petitioner’s podium, wearing a simple cream blouse. Her dark hair had grown back, completely covering the small scar behind her right ear where Rodrigo had once torn the strands away. She didn't look at him when she spoke. She looked directly at the judge.
"The agreement is satisfactory, Your Honor," she said, her voice clear, resonant, and entirely devoid of the tight, breathless rhythm I had heard at her thirty-first birthday dinner. "I am requesting a permanent, non-expiring protective order to be attached to the final decree."
"Granted," the judge said, his gavel falling with a clean, sharp crack that ended three years of systematic torment in a fraction of a second.
As we walked out of the Bexar County Courthouse, the afternoon sun was bright, hitting the old red sandstone walls of the building. The air smelled like roasting pecans and river water from the nearby walk.
Marcus Vance met us at the steps, holding a legal folder. "The title for the Alamo Heights property has been cleared, Valeria. It’s entirely in your name now. The listing agent says we have three full-price offers from buyers who want to convert it into a family medical practice."
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"Sell it," Valeria said without hesitation. "Every cent of the profit goes to the Bexar County Legal Aid Fund for women who can't afford a private attorney. I don't want a single brick of his money."
Marcus smiled, nodding his head with deep respect. "Consider it done."
