She smiled. Small, but genuine. “I understand,” she said calmly. “I understand perfectly. Thank you for the clarity.” The calmness in her voice made Matos slightly uneasy, as if he had just lost something. “So now you’re leaving?” he asked, less certain. “I’m leaving,” Jordana said. “I’ll move the car, as you ordered.” She took the keys and got into the Honda. Started the engine. Reversed slowly. The broken headlight rattled with each movement. Matos smiled. Victorious. “That’s right. Get out—and don’t come back.”
Jordana stopped the car beside him, rolled down the window, and looked him straight in the eyes. “Officer, may I ask your full name?” Matos laughed. “What? Going to sue me? Good luck. I’m Sergeant Carlos Eduardo Matos. Want my badge number too? 47,538.” “And you?” she looked at Ferreira. “Corporal Augusto Ferreira. Badge 52194.” He laughed. “Write it down. Nothing’s going to happen anyway.” Jordana nodded. “Thank you. And you?” she looked at Cardoso. “Officer Roberto Cardoso. Badge 38721.” He stepped closer to the car. “Ma’am, I saw everything. I will testify. I won’t let this go.” “Thank you, officer,” Jordana said kindly. “Your testimony will be very important.”
Matos let out a loud laugh. “Testify about what? You’re not going to do anything. People like you never do anything.” Jordana looked at him for a long moment, then gave a faint smile. “See you,” she said simply.
And then it happened.
Matos stepped forward and slapped her across the face.
It wasn’t light. It was hard. Full of rage. The sound echoed. Jordana’s head snapped to the side from the impact. She staggered back two steps. Her hand instinctively rose to her face, already turning red.
The briefcase fell. Papers scattered everywhere.
“Matos!” Cardoso rushed forward. “What did you do?” “She was threatening me!” Matos shouted. “She was disrespecting me!” “She did nothing!” Jordana stood still, hand on her face. She wasn’t crying—but tears slipped out from pure rage. “Are you okay?” Cardoso tried to approach. “I’m fine,” Jordana said, her voice trembling. “Don’t touch me.” She slowly bent down and picked up the papers. Her hands trembled, but her movements were deliberate.
“That was assault,” Cardoso said, turning to Matos. “A crime. I’m reporting it.” “Report whatever you want,” Matos crossed his arms. “I saw her threaten me. It was self-defense.” “That’s a lie.” “It’s my version—and Ferreira’s. Two against one.”
Jordana finished gathering the papers. She stood up, her face red with the clear imprint of fingers. “I’m leaving,” she said calmly. “As you ordered.” She got into the car, started it, reversed slowly. She stopped beside them one last time, rolled down the window. “See you shortly,” she said, her voice a promise—then drove away.
25 minutes later, the three officers entered the courthouse. Hearing at 9. Traffic case. Routine. Matos and Ferreira were still laughing. Ferreira mimicked her face, convinced nothing would happen. Cardoso walked in silence, disturbed. They entered the Third Criminal Court. Large room. Thirty people waiting.
“Please be seated,” someone indicated. “The judge will arrive in a few minutes.”
They sat down. Matos yawned. Ferreira checked his phone.
Nine o’clock sharp.
The side door opened.
“All rise. Her Honor, Judge Jordana Santos.”
Jordana entered, wearing her robe—her face still marked.
Matos went pale. Ferreira dropped his phone.
She sat, looked at them, and gave a faint smile.
“Good morning. Let’s begin.”
The hearing proceeded normally. Jordana conducted everything with professionalism. When it was time for police testimony, she called Cardoso first.
“Officer Cardoso, can you describe what happened this morning in the parking lot?”
