"I'm going to start recording our sessions together. Is that okay?" I prop a tablet up against my bag on the table, its screen reflecting us both. My finger hovers over the 'record' button, but I wait for a response.

When I got home last night, the cloudiness of my mind seemed to drift away and a newfound clarity befell me. I just need to gather enough evidence to support my claim that Camila was not acting on her own behalf. A perfect way to do that, I realised, is to really work with her, to film our interactions, to learn just what exactly she has been through, and to bring all of that to the attention of the court when she is facing trial once again. I will be her defence, even if nobody else will.

She's been sitting silently for a while, unmoving as she stares down at her hands.

"Camila?"

Her dark eyes connect with mine and she nods, shifting in her seat. "Okay." Her fingers drum on her other hand's knuckles in a wave-like motion.

I nod, hit record, and lean back in my seat, opening her file in front of me and spinning my pencil in my hand.

"Okay, Camila. I'll start off easy. How are you feeling today?" I ask while turning to the back of her folder where I keep various plain pieces of paper for note-taking. Another thing I decided to try last night was to create a real structure to our sessions. So far, the few sessions we've had have been mostly improvisation, besides the planning that went into the experimental memory-visit, which I'm yet to gain understanding of.

She scoffs slightly, but her lips twitch up at the corners. "I'm okay, I think. Normal..." her eyes drift and glaze over as her brows furrow ever so slightly. I know the look; she isn't even sure what normal means anymore.

I nod. "That's good⁠—"

"What about you?"

"I'm doing okay, too." I smile slightly, watching as she clasps her hands together tightly, pulling up on the cuffs a little.

She nods slowly, and I take it as my cue to continue with the session.

"To start with, I want to discuss your living conditions. Do you believe you have access to appropriate and acceptable amenities here?" I'm really just probing for video evidence of her maltreatment here, hoping that it may prove useful in the future and help me improve her quality of life, even if she acts like this is what she wants.

She nods hesitantly.

I raise a brow and elaborate. "Do you have access to clean clothes, bedding, and sanitary items such as toilet paper?"

Her gaze falls and she shakes her head.

"What do you have?"

"These clothes, a mattress... I, um, get tissues but... not much. I need to save it so I just use the water from the faucet when I take a piss."

I take notes, holding in my anger at such treatment, and continue with my questioning.

"Do you have access to frequent and regular hygiene practices such as being able to brush your teeth and hair, and shower?"

Again, she shakes her head.

"How often do you have the chance to do these vital things?"

"Um..." she chews her lip as she thinks. "Like once a week, maybe. Showers are more like two weeks. I'm not sure, though."

"Do you have access to the various recreational activities offered by this facility and allowed in your sentence, such as the outdoor courtyard, the gym, and the opportunity for employment?"

Once more, a simple shake of her head is her answer. She twitches like she has more to say, and I have a feeling it is to deny that she needs or deserves any of the things I've listed, but keeps her mouth shut.

"In my practice, it's very important to get to know you as a person. We've spoken before, but I'd like to properly start to learn about you today." She nods. "Shall we start from the beginning? That way I can properly understand what has shaped you." I leave a beat of silence as I take more papers from her file, ready to correct anything. "Can you tell me about your life at home? Your childhood?"

She glances at the screen to her right, or at least seems to attempt a glance but is quickly captured by the sight. She leans forward in her seat and in towards the camera ever so slightly, staring at herself with her lips parted. I give her a moment—the question of how long it has been since she last saw herself passing through my mind—before clearing my throat. She returns to her prior position and I notice her body shaking as though she is bouncing her leg under the table. The quiet rattling of chains confirms that she is.

"Who did you live with?" I prompt gently.

"My parents; my baby sister, Sofi—she's thirteen now, she's an angel; um, sometimes Mami would bring women home or Papi would have someone in, uh..." she looks to me again, scanning my face for something or other before she seems to change the word she was looking for, "sometimes we had visitors that'd stay a while."

I nod, taking brief notes as she speaks. "Did you go to school, mix with people your age?"

"When I was a kid..." she gulps, closing her eyes, "um... when I was a kid, instead of going to school, my parents taught me. They... they said, 'We are Cabellos. We are above the others.' so instead of dumb shit like math, they taught me how to live like them and keep La Familia in check."

"When you say 'La Familia', what are you referring to?" I already know that is the collective name of everyone under her parents' control, but I want to make sure that is true.

Instead of an answer, her eyes snap open and her jaw drops. "You have an accent," She points out, evidently hinting at the ease in which the words rolled from my tongue.

I nod. "I'm of Cuban decent, my family speak Spanish. Who are 'La Familia', Camila?"

I try to ignore the way my cheeks heat at the smirk that tugs at her lips before she speaks again, but it's damn near impossible. "Everyone I knew. Papi... was the alpha, el padre, of his men. Mami had the women, and together, they formed a whole. We were close, I knew most of them by name, so it only made sense to call ourselves family. You already knew that though;" she looks me up and down almost hungrily, "Every Cuban knows someone who's dared to cross La Familia."

I cast my eyes down. There were, in fact, rumours that some distant relative of mine had gotten caught up in La Familia way back when we and the Cabellos still lived in Cuba. He lost himself to drugs, became the black sheep of the family, and never lived to leave that life.

"How would your parents teach you?" I push, looking back to the girl across the room whose brown eyes quickly glaze over.

"Papi..." her lips remain parted after the single word escapes them, her eyes dropping from mine as her head slowly lulls forward, as though she really is falling into her own past. "Please, I don't... I don't want to..." her fingers move in waves again, "I can't talk about that. Not yet."

"Okay, that's okay," I nod, ensuring my tone is reassuring as, without truly thinking, I throw my hand out onto hers.

She quickly clasps it between her own and looks up once again. "I lied."

I frown slightly, watching as she takes a deep breath, her fingers still drumming, though this time against the back of my hand.

Finally, with fluttering eyes, she admits, "I'm not okay. Not ever."