The last thing I remembered was buying strawberries.

The jury deliberated for less than two hours.

When they returned to the courtroom at 4:30 p.m., the atmosphere was electric with anticipation.

Hector Santos stood up beside his attorney, trying to maintain a smug, arrogant posture, but the sweat glistened on his forehead gave away his terror.

"Will the defendant please rise," Judge Montgomery commanded. "Has the jury reached a verdict?"

The jury foreman, a stern-looking man in his fifties, stood up and unfolded the paper.

"We the jury, in the matter of the State of Texas versus Hector Santos, find the defendant..."

The room held its breath.

"...Guilty of attempted first-degree murder."

A wave of gasps and soft cheers broke out in the gallery.

"Guilty of felony aggravated assault with a deadly weapon," the foreman continued. "Guilty of witness tampering, guilty of extortion, and guilty of corporate embezzlement."

Hector’s knees buckled. He sank back into his chair, his face completely drained of color, staring at the table in absolute, stunned disbelief.

Judge Montgomery didn't hesitate.

"Hector Santos," the judge declared, his voice booming through the silent room. "You used your wealth, your power, and your position to terrorize your family and your community. You showed no mercy to your own blood, leaving your daughter to die on a garage floor. This court sentences you to forty-five years in the Texas Department of Criminal Corrections, without the possibility of parole for thirty years."

BANG.

The gavel struck the block.

Two bailiffs immediately grabbed Hector’s arms, pulling him out of his chair. As they turned him toward the holding cell door, Hector looked back over his shoulder at me.

"Valeria!" he screamed, his voice breaking into a pathetic, desperate shriek. "Valeria, please! Tell them! Tell them you forgive me! I'm your father!"

I stood up slowly from the prosecution table. I looked him dead in his eyes—the same eyes that had terrified me my entire life.