I tried to explain the truth—that I had been attacked first and the consent forms were real—but my words dissolved under their judgment. I suddenly felt small in a room of witnesses. The police produced cuffs and approached. I stared only at Clara, and she did not flinch.
An hour later, we sat across from each other in an interrogation room. Under bright light, I told the officers: the debt collectors, my injuries, the treatments, the pregnancy, the abortion arrangement, and that Shane struck me first. The officer listened, bluntly.
“No matter the motive, there is clear evidence you assaulted someone,” he said. “Assault is a crime. Pregnancy complications are moral matters—tragic, painful—but they don’t excuse violence.”
Felix, clutching his head, took a few steps and then halted. “Officer, forget it,” he murmured. “I’m fine. Say a few kind words and drop it.”
Clara roared, voice shaking. “No, officer. You must hold him accountable. Put him where he belongs. Otherwise, who knows how brutal he will be next time?”
They pressed their case. Outside, rain began, each drop an accusation.