At 6:37 AM, Andrés Herrera locked his apartment door, hands shaking from a sleepless night. His battered white sedan coughed to life, and in his briefcase sat the one thing that could save him: a USB drive with the video that would clear his name. One mistake, one delay—and everything would collapse.
Traffic crawled like molasses, but then he saw her: a woman beside a gray sedan, trunk open, spare tire on the ground. She looked furious but helpless. Andrés didn’t hesitate. “Need help?” he asked.
Her eyes measured him—controlled, professional, unflinching. “Yes, please. I’m late.”
He grabbed his tools and got to work. Ten minutes later, the tire was fixed. She thanked him, drove off… and so did his USB drive, slipping quietly into her passenger seat.
He made it to the courthouse at 7:42, sweating, heart pounding. Inside Courtroom 2B, he faced his accusers: attorney Salgado and supervisor Paula Aguilar, the woman accusing him of theft. Then he saw the judge.
The same woman from the roadside. Recognition flickered in her eyes.
“Mr. Herrera,” she said, “how do you plead?”
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