Sinopiquer lay on the cold concrete floor, unable to sleep.
Next door was Acuña. He could hear Acuña turning over, sighing, talking to himself.
Further down were a few people he didn't recognize—maybe from the police station, maybe from the "Patriotic Front," or maybe just regular soldiers. He couldn't tell, and he didn't want to.
He was thinking about what would happen next.
Trial. Certainly a trial. Then what? Life imprisonment? Or—death penalty?
He thought of that three-year-old child.
Diego Espinosa.
That day in the San Anna District, he stood at the street corner watching as the police dragged people out of Mexican homes, pinned them to the ground, machetes waving wildly. He saw a woman run out holding a child, chased down by several people, pinned to the ground, the knife came down. He saw that child being pulled from the woman's arms, thrown onto the pile of tires at the corner, then someone poured gasoline on the tires and lit them.
He didn't stop it.
