Then Lucía opened the laptop.
Her expression became serious.
“For six weeks, I’ve been reviewing procurement records connected to the school.”
Chema frowned.
“Six weeks?”
Sofía looked at him.
“We knew about the investigation before you received the final summons.”
“How?”
Valeria answered.
“Because someone contacted me.”
Chema turned.
“Who?”
Valeria hesitated.
Sofía interrupted.
“Later.”
That single word told Chema something else was happening.
Something his daughters hadn’t told him.
Lucía displayed a spreadsheet.
“The alleged theft was supposedly accomplished by ordering materials that never reached the school.”
She pointed to several entries.
“Computers. Cleaning supplies. Projectors. Electrical equipment. Construction materials.”
The total exceeded eight hundred thousand pesos.
“But there is a problem,” Lucía said.
She enlarged several invoice numbers.
“These companies barely exist.”
The prosecutor frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“The addresses lead to empty storefronts, private residences, and in one case, a tire repair shop.”
Murmurs spread through the courtroom.
Robles’s attorney stood.
“Your Honor, we have not had an opportunity to verify these allegations.”
“You’ll get one,” Judge Vargas replied.
Lucía continued.
“Three companies were incorporated within months of Mr. Robles becoming principal.”
Robles suddenly stood.
“This is a circus!”
Judge Vargas slammed her gavel.
“Sit down.”
“They’re lying!”
“Mr. Robles!”
His attorney physically pulled him back into his chair.
Sofía waited until the room quieted.
Then she said:
“The interesting part isn’t when those companies were created.”
She removed another document.
“It’s where the money went afterward.”
Robles stopped moving.
Sofía placed the paper before the judge.
“Payments from the school went into supplier accounts. Portions were subsequently transferred through intermediary accounts.”
The judge read silently.
Her expression hardened.
“Who owns the final account?”
Sofía looked directly at Robles.
“A company registered to his brother-in-law.”
Chaos erupted.
Reporters stood.
The prosecutor demanded to examine the documents.
Robles shouted that the records were fabricated.
The judge hammered the gavel repeatedly.
Don Chema sat completely still.
He felt like he had walked into the wrong courtroom.
All his life, he had cleaned other people’s messes.
Now his daughters were cleaning his.
But Sofía wasn’t finished.
Not even close.
She turned toward the prosecutor.
“My father was convenient.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was poor.”
The word hurt.
But she continued.
“He was elderly. Retired. He had worked at the school for thirty-four years, which meant his employee information appeared throughout decades of records.”
She looked toward Chema.
“And everyone knew he couldn’t afford an expensive defense.”
Then she turned toward Robles.
