Chapter 5 - The Legal Counterstrike
By Friday morning, the legal wheels were turning with terrifying speed.
I sat in the high-rise office of Licenciado Andres Morales, one of the most ruthless civil litigation attorneys in Jalisco. On his broad glass desk lay three thick folders: the IP trace report definitively linking the fake profile to Lorena’s home Wi-Fi network, screenshots of the defamatory Facebook post, and the six-minute video taken by my father on the day of the carne asada.
Licenciado Morales leaned back in his leather chair, tapping his gold pen against his notepad, a cold, satisfied smile touching his lips.
“Mrs. Gomez,” Morales said, looking across at me. “Your sister made a catastrophic error in judgment. Publishing an unauthorized photograph of an eight-year-old child online, accompanied by fabricated claims of child neglect, violates multiple federal minor protection laws in Mexico. This isn't just civil defamation. It is a criminal offense.”
“I don't just want the post taken down, Licenciado,” I said firmly, my hands rested calmly on my lap. “I want full legal accountability. I want a public retraction published in the same group, and I want a formal restraining order protecting my son from both my sister and my mother.”
“We will do better than that,” Morales replied, sliding a set of legal notices across the desk for my signature. “We are issuing a cease-and-desist letter with an immediate demand for three hundred thousand pesos in damages for severe emotional distress caused to a minor. If she fails to comply within forty-eight hours, we file the criminal charges directly with the District Attorney.”
“Will she be able to pay three hundred thousand pesos?” I asked.
Morales chuckled dryly. “Given that her restaurant is currently facing bankruptcy and her bank accounts are frozen, no. She won't be able to pay. Which means her only choice to avoid criminal indictment and potential jail time will be full surrender.”
At 2:00 PM that afternoon, a court process server walked into Lorena’s failing restaurant in the city center.
According to an waiter who worked there, Lorena was standing near the register when the process server handed her the thick white envelope containing the formal criminal complaint and the demand for damages.
When she opened the envelope and saw the certified digital forensics report with her home IP address printed in bold red ink, alongside my attorney’s signature, her face turned as white as a bedsheet. She stumbled back against the counter, knocking over a tray of glassware that shattered across the tile floor.
Ten minutes later, my phone began ringing uncontrollably.
First Lorena called four times in a row. I ignored every single call. Then my mother called. I let it go straight to voicemail.
Finally, a voicemail notification popped up from Doña Elvira. I put the phone on speaker.
“Camila!” my mother’s voice shrieked through the speaker, frantic, breathless, and stripped of all her usual dignity. “Are you insane?! You sent court servers to your own sister’s business?! She is crying hysterically! You are going to ruin her life! Call off your lawyers immediately! We are your family!”
I listened to the message, my face expressionless.
May you like
I picked up the phone, pressed delete, and cleared the notification.
Family was the word they used when they wanted to crush you without consequences. But that word no longer held any power over me.
