Cress blinked. “I… that’s not relevant.”
“The fire escape collapsed last spring. The windows on the north side are all broken. There’s no heat, no light, no water.” Owen turned to the judge. “Your Honor, Mr. Cress didn’t secure this property. He weaponized its neglect. My client didn’t break in. He walked into a ruin that the city should have condemned years ago. The only person here who has broken the public trust is the man using blight as a business model.”
The silence that followed was thick as tar.
Owen stood up. He didn’t shout. He never shouted. He just placed a single photograph on the document camera: a close-up of Miguel’s duct-taped sneaker, the sole flapping, a hole worn clear through to a gray sock underneath.
“Kid’s sneakers are shot,” Sal grunted. He pulled a wad of cash from his wallet—the kind of cash that smelled like diesel fuel and honest sweat—and pressed it into Miguel’s hand. “There’s a shoe store on West Broadway. Tell ’em Sal sent you. They’ll set you right.”
The DA laughed. “That’s your defense? ‘He was just homeless’? A crime is a crime, Brandano.”
“You can,” Sal said. Then he looked at Owen. Really looked at him, for the first time in years. “Brandanos build things,” he said. “Second chances included.”