“Federal marshals. Remove the prisoners from this facility.”
As the tactical operators dragged Diego toward the door, his expensive leather boots scuffing uselessly across the linoleum, he turned his bruised, tear-streaked face back toward the examination table, crying out into the sterile air in raw, suffocating agony:
“LAURA! PLEASE! TELL THEM THIS WAS A DOMESTIC DISPUTE! LAURA, I AM THE FATHER OF YOUR BABY! YOU CAN’T LET THEM BURY ME IN ADX FLORENCE!”
I did not flinch.
I reached down with my right hand, taking the warm, sterile paper towel Dr. Salinas handed me, and slowly wiped the cold blue ultrasound gel from my skin.
I smoothed my dress down over my four-month pregnant belly, feeling the distinct, miraculous flutter of life moving beneath my palm.
“You are not a father, Diego,” I said softly.
“You were only an obstacle that my child survived.”
The heavy wooden doors of the examination room swung shut behind him with an echoing, concussive, and sovereign THUD.
