PART 2
“Twelve properties?” my father repeated from the bench, forgetting he wasn’t allowed to speak in the courtroom.
The judge looked at him over the top of her glasses, and he slumped in his seat like a scolded child.
Daniela watched me as if she’d just discovered she’d lived with a stranger for thirty years. Mauricio, on the other hand, no longer seemed arrogant. He seemed to be calculating the damage.
“To be precise,” the judge said, “how many properties are currently in your portfolio, Miss Salgado?”
“Twelve, Your Honor. Offices in Santa Fe, commercial spaces in Querétaro, apartments in Guadalajara, two industrial warehouses in the State of Mexico, and three residential properties. Valle de Bravo is just my vacation home.”
My mother clutched her chest.
For years they had imagined me as indebted, lonely, and bitter. It suited their purposes to think that way. It was easier to pity them than to accept that the daughter they despised had built something none of them understood.
Attorney Cárdenas stood up abruptly.
“Your Honor, the defendant’s financial situation doesn’t change the fact that a signed document exists.”
My lawyer, Gabriel Herrera, remained seated for a few more seconds. He was a man of few words, with gray hair, a dark gray suit, and an unsettling calm. When he finally stood, he opened his briefcase with two sharp clicks.
“You’re right, colleague,” he said. “My client’s wealth doesn’t invalidate a contract. But forgery does.”
Daniela turned to Mauricio.
“What?”
Mauricio didn’t look at her.
Herrera handed a red folder to the judge.
“We submitted a handwriting analysis conducted by Dr. Marisol Aguirre. She compared the signature on the alleged agreement with thirty-eight authentic documents belonging to my client.” The conclusion is clear: the signature was forged.
“Objection!” Cárdenas shouted. “This is a setup.”
“You just presented the document a few minutes ago,” the judge replied without raising her voice. “Objection overruled.”
Daniela began to turn pale.
“Mauricio… you told me Valeria had signed it. You told me she regretted having that house.”
Mauricio swallowed hard.
Herrera walked toward a screen set up at the side of the room.
“The forged signature is only part of the problem. We also know where the letterhead used to create this document came from.”
He pressed a key.
A video appeared.
The image showed my studio in Valle de Bravo. The date in the corner read September 12, almost two months after the supposed signing of the agreement. The door opened with difficulty. A man entered wearing a cap and a black jacket.
It was Mauricio.
My mother let out a stifled gasp. My father froze.
In the video, Mauricio was going through my drawers, taking out several sheets of paper with my company’s letterhead, and putting them inside his jacket. Before leaving, he looked directly at the camera.
Herrera paused the image on his face.
“Mr. Mauricio Rivas entered private property without authorization, stole corporate stationery, and later used it to forge a transfer agreement.”
Mauricio stood up so quickly his chair fell backward.
“That’s not fair! You recorded me without permission!”
I looked at him for the first time.
“You entered my house without permission.”
Daniela took a step back.
“You did it? Did you break in to steal from her?”
Mauricio exploded.
“I did it for us! You were the one who couldn’t stand that your sister had a better house than yours!”
The entire courtroom froze.
Daniela opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
Judge Morales banged her gavel.
“Mr. Rivas, if you interrupt again, I will order you removed from this courtroom.”
But we all knew it was too late.
Because my lawyer hadn’t yet presented the final piece of evidence.
