Chapter 7 - The Broadcast
By 6:30 AM, the rain over Mexico City had stopped, giving way to a pale, cold morning sky.
The grand plaza in front of the Federal Palace of Justice in San Lázaro was bustling with news vans, satellite trucks, and dozens of security personnel setting up barriers for the morning's national broadcast.
Dozens of camera crews from Televisa, TV Azteca, and international news networks were deploying their equipment along the perimeter steps, testing microphones and lighting rigs.
Carlos and I stood under the concrete canopy of the nearby San Lázaro Metro station, watching the heavy security presence through the morning crowd.
Police officers in crisp navy uniforms were checking credentials at every metal detector station set up along the main plaza entrance.
"You'll never get through those metal detectors with that backpack, Alejandro," Carlos whispered, adjusting his coat collar. "They have a list of suspects from the Third District. The second they scan your ID, you’ll be in handcuffs."
"I'm not going through the front metal detectors," I said, pointing toward a line of three large catering vans parked near the rear loading dock of the broadcast area. "Look at the workers carrying the equipment crates."
The catering staff and technical crews were wearing high-visibility orange vests and matching grey caps, moving freely past a single, distracted guard at the side gate.
"Stay here, Carlos," I said, turning to the old lawyer. "If anything happens to me, take this secondary copy of the affidavit to the French Embassy down the street."
Carlos grabbed my hand, squeezing it tightly with his weathered fingers. "Your father would be so proud of you today, Alejandro. Finish this."
I slipped out of the Metro station, walked behind a row of parked utility trucks, and found an unattended orange crew vest hanging from the side mirror of a lighting van.
I put on the vest, pulled a dark baseball cap low over my face, and grabbed a heavy aluminum lighting tripod from the back of the truck.
I slung my leather backpack containing the documents over my shoulder, picked up the heavy tripod, and walked straight toward the side gate.
The guard at the gate didn't even look up from his clipboard. He simply waved his hand, letting me pass into the central courtyard of the broadcast complex.
I walked through the maze of cables, mobile production units, and busy production assistants, heading straight toward the main outdoor stage set up on the grand marble steps.
Standing near the center podium, adjusting his notes under the bright television lights, was General Attorney Bernardo Gomez—a fierce, independent prosecutor known across the country for his unyielding stance against organized crime and political corruption.
Surrounding the stage were at least fifty journalists, holding microphones and note pads.
And standing at the foot of the stage steps, wearing a sharp black trench coat and talking quietly to two senior police commanders, was Jorge Mendoza himself.
My heart stopped for a beat.
Mendoza was there as an invited guest—a prominent "civic developer" attending the official state announcement. He looked utterly calm, serene, holding a cup of espresso, completely unaware that the man he had been hunting all night was standing thirty feet away behind a lighting rig.
Beside Mendoza stood Karina.
She had been released from holding on a temporary administrative stay engineered by her family's lawyers. She was wearing a high-collared designer coat, her face pale, her hair pulled back into a tight, perfect bun. But her eyes were nervous, darting around the crowd as if expecting a ghost to appear from the shadows.
I set the heavy lighting tripod down behind a camera rack.
I reached into my backpack, unzipped the waterproof pocket, and pulled out the original 1968 land survey map, the presidential title grant, and my father's signed affidavit.
I stepped out from behind the camera rig, threw off the orange crew vest, and walked directly toward the central stage.
"Hey! You! Stop right there!" a security officer shouted from the side aisle, noticing my mud-stained clothes and bruised face.
Karina turned her head at the sound of the officer's voice.
Her eyes locked onto mine. Her face went completely, utterly white.
"Alejandro!" she gasped, her voice cracking into a high-pitched, terrified screech. "Uncle! It's him! He has the papers!"
Jorge Mendoza turned around slowly, his expression freezing as he saw me walking up the marble steps toward the General Attorney.
"Stop that man!" Mendoza roared, dropping his espresso cup onto the marble floor. "He's an escaped criminal! He attacked my family!"
Four police officers drew their sidearms and sprinted up the steps toward me.
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I ignored them completely. I leaped over the media boundary cable, stepped directly in front of the live television cameras, and slammed the original 1968 land survey map onto the General Attorney's podium right over his official speech notes.
"General Attorney Gomez!" I shouted, my voice echoing across the loudspeakers into millions of television screens across the nation. "My name is Alejandro Ruiz! My wife and her uncle, Jorge Mendoza, starved my mother, forged my family's signatures, and murdered my father to steal seventy million pesos of federal land in Coyoacán!"
