When Normani announces that she'd like to share Exhibit C with the court and they wheel a cart into the room, topped with a projector and a small laptop, I relax some, believing that they'll soon be showing some of the tapes of my sessions with Camila. Normani subtly shoots me a strange look, however, that has me fidgeting in my seat. As she describes the video, I begin to understand why.

"I will remind the people of the court that you were forewarned that you may be exposed to potentially sensitive material during this trial. This is definitely one of those instances. This is video footage captured from a camera located within the vehicle in which the crime was committed."

The men on the other side of the room grumble quietly to each other, shrugging. I clench my fists as a small USB drive is plugged into the computer, the projector humming to life. A white screen slowly lowers against one of the walls.

"This video was buried by the prosecutors after it was found that it shows, quite clearly, that my client was provoked into the attack and did so only in the defence of herself and Mr Ortiz. Fortunately for the court, the footage was leaked by an anonymous poster who uploaded it onto a public forum, allowing us to watch it today." She drops her tone some, nodding to the man waiting beside the laptop, "If you will."

My heart thumps in my chest, louder than anything. I glance at Camila once, notice that she too is watching the screen lower, and know it's not a good idea. Once again, I curse my inability to help and take a deep breath. The lights dim and the video begins to play against the screen.

The footage is dark and jumpy, but just clear enough to see what is happening. It begins with Camila and her father sitting opposite one another in the van, leaning their backs against the metallic green walls. Camila is bouncing her converse-clad toes against her father's much larger work boots, but the man looks less than amused. He says something short and she stops abruptly, pulling her legs up to her chest instead, resting her chin between her knees. A moment later, they rock as the van screeches to a stop. Instantly leaping to his feet, Alejandro swings the door open and disappears from view while Camila hurriedly pulls open several toolboxes scattered around the vehicle. Her father returns, holding a squirming young man between his large hands, with her mother in tow. Camila had said he was young, but I'm shocked by the youth of him. Although now they seem close in age, in the video he seems to be only in his mid-teens. Then again, this was a good few years ago. Camila must have been just 18 or 19 at the time.

He continues to squirm, calling out for help as Alejandro tosses him onto the ground, barking at Camila to "sujetarlo, niña." I'm not shocked by the heaviness of Alejandro's voice. Any other tone would've been off for such a stocky man. She quickly catches his arms, twisting them up beneath him as she swings up to straddle his legs, preventing them too from flailing. Her mother looks down to a bag of zip ties but doesn't hand her any, making Camila reach out for them herself. When she leans towards them, he attempts to rip his arms free, only for Camila to instead reach one hand up for his head, grasping him by the hair and forcing his face into the metal floor of the van. He groans, shocked long enough by the thud that she can tuck some zip ties between her teeth to hold as she fastens them around his wrists and ankles, pulling them tight until his hands begin to turn red. All the while, her parents look on with disinterested scowls. Once she shuffles away to the back of the van, nearest his head, her mother offers the slightest of smiles, as her parents take their turn, rolling him onto his back with his bound hands now beneath him. He's difficult to recognise—he has no distinguishing tattoos in the video, and its slight blur makes it difficult to pin his face, but when Camila squeezes her thighs around his ears, leaning up slightly to press her weight down into her hands on his forehead, successfully rendering him stationary, it's clear that this is, in fact, the prosecutor currently hanging his head beside his attorney. I briefly furrow my brows at his position. When he begins to beg for mercy, for the Cabellos to give him more time, the present version of him seems to become smaller in his seat. A part of me feels sorry for him. Seeking revenge or not, this must have been an incredibly traumatic experience for him, too. The majority of me wishes he was in Camila's place instead, that it was his head on the chopping block simply for coming after my-- um, Camila. I turn my eyes back to the screen.

"Now, Camila," Sinuhe instructs.

Camila shakily reaches out behind her for a tool. I recognise the tremble in her hand as she gives him what looks to be a rusted set of pliers. He smirks as he holds the tool above Roger's face, leaning over him. All the while, her mother silently works to remove the young man's shoes, for what reason, I can't begin to imagine.

Alejandro's threats are basic, where's the money, movie-mafia stuff, but Roger's pleas are so real, so desperate, that any word the Cabellos say seems to drip with venom. He shrieks when the man reaches into his mouth and pulls out his tongue. My gaze falls out of focus as if to protect myself from whatever scene is about to unfold, but quickly sharpens when I hear Camila's voice.

"Wait!"

All attention in the van snaps onto her. Her eyes are shadowed by her furrowed brows, but I can tell she's looking back and forth, unaware that she's taking what could well have been the last look of her parents. My hands tighten on the chair beneath me, so much so that it feels as though my knuckles might break the skin.

"He doesn't deserv-"

She's slapped across the cheek so harshly that her head is forced to the side, face screwing up in a silent wince.

"Did we tell you to speak, Karla?" Her father, apparently the pure driving force of the operation, spits, while her mother simply scowls silently from the side.

Camila doesn't respond, and his free hand—the one not still holding tight to Roger's tongue—reaches out and grabs her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. I want to leave, but I can't. I'm rooted to my seat. "Answer me, molestia." A few tense seconds pass, in which even Roger falls silent. I suppose he might've realised that his screaming will only serve to hurt his throat.

In the newfound silence, Camila whispers softly. "Please, Papi-"

Another hit, this one somehow harder than the last. I realise he'd swung his arm around, the side of his fist making contact with the corner of her eye, and sent her head spinning once more. Shocking me, she doesn't cry out, doesn't yell, doesn't even whimper. She sits silently, staring in the direction that she'd been forced to face.

Slowly, her shaking lessens and her breathing becomes much slower. One of her hands tightens on Roger's head—with her fingertips hooked just over his brow, she seems to squeeze his forehead as tightly as she can—while the other ever so subtly creeps behind her to the toolboxes. Her parents continue with their interrogation-style torture, her father handing the pliers to her mother who in turn begins to use them to apply unimaginable pressure to his little toe, while Camila stares off into space. Her shoulder twitches slightly as she tightly grips one of the tools before she swings around with such force, I'm surprised she didn't give herself whiplash. Before I can look away, I catch a glimpse of the first moment of contact, the metal of the hammer slamming into her father's nose.

On instinct, I then squeeze my eyes shut, but I hear the gasps around me, the yells and cracks coming from the video, the grunts, the slams, the shrieks, and, finally, a deafening silence that makes way for a whisper much too clear to be from the tape.

"Please."

That alone is enough to send me over the edge. I scramble from my seat and hurry out of the room. On the way, I briefly catch a glimpse of the red-stained van and the shaking girl within. I hold a hand over my mouth as if to strangle the sounds that threaten to make their way from me. It only serves to muffle them when they pour out of me in profanities as soon as I feel the hot air wrap around me.