“Stolen?”
“Yes. He said I stole it—and that he was going to arrest me for possession of stolen goods.”
Colonel Almeida frowned. “Continue, Mr. Lucas.”
“I tried to explain. I showed scholarship documents—but Matos took my phone and said it was stolen too. He threw it to the ground. The screen shattered completely.”
“And they said it was an accident?” the prosecutor asked.
“No. Sergeant Matos looked at me and said, ‘Oops, it slipped.’ And he laughed.”
“They both laughed.”
Jordana clenched her hands tightly. It was the exact same pattern.
“What else happened?”
“They made me sit on the sidewalk, hands on my head. They questioned me for an hour. Asked where I stole things from, where I got money, if I sold drugs.”
“And did you answer?”
“I tried. I told them about the scholarship, my father who is a construction worker, my mother who works as a house cleaner—but they didn’t believe me. They said I was lying, that they were going to arrest me.”
“Why didn’t they?”
