📸 Photo

MARCHING POWDER

'Just a momentito, please,' I begged him, slipping away and down the corridor. 'I just need to see someone.'

'But . . .' he stammered, making to follow me. However, when he saw that the corridor led to a dead end, he let me go ahead.

The judge's door was slightly ajar and I could see him working away at his desk. On that occasion, my hands were cuffed in front of my body, so I knocked with both hands and went in before he even had time to respond. I closed the door behind me.

'With your permission,' I said, facing the judge and bowing in exactly the same way as I had seen everyone else do whenever they entered or left the courtroom.

The judge looked up from the document he was studying and adjusted his glasses. He was surprised to see me, but he didn't say anything. I bowed again and cautiously approached his desk.

'Señor juez, I am a foreigner. I am very sorry. I have a family in England with two daughters. Please, pardon me,' I stammered in my broken Spanish, producing an envelope from my suit coat. The judge put his hand up to stop me, but I slipped it under a book that was on his desk. In the envelope was five thousand dollars that I had taken out of Abregon's bank account. It was the remainder of my money. The judge looked from me to the book, then back to me, with his hand frozen in the air. Still, he didn't say anything. I bowed once more and left quietly, leaving the door open exactly the same amount as when I'd entered. Fernando was waiting outside the door, looking nervously up and down the corridor. I had taken too long and he was worried about getting into trouble.

'Vamos,' he commanded, taking me by the elbow. 'The transport is waiting.'

The money I gave the judge didn't help much. He gave me six years and eight months at the sentencing hearing. My lawyers had told me that I would get off completely, but they were happy with the result.

'It could have been a lot more,' they congratulated me, shaking both my hands because they were cuffed. 'Of course, we will have it reduced on appeal. The judges need to show they are tough at first instance on foreigners. And no one ever serves the full sentence, anyway.'

I was still in shock. I had tried to convince myself to expect the