“Legal department?” Matos clapped sarcastically. “Did you hear that, Ferreira? Legal department.” “Must be a court assistant, or the one who carries files—or the one who serves coffee at lawyers’ meetings,” Ferreira added. “There’s always one like that in a corner with a tray.” “I don’t serve coffee,” Jordana said, losing patience. “And now I’m asking you one last time—let me pass.” “Or what?” Matos challenged, leaning so close she could smell stale coffee on his breath. “You going to cry? Call your little boss?”
“I will file a complaint for harassment,” Jordana replied calmly. “Harassment?” Matos burst into laughter. “Did you hear that, Ferreira? She says this is harassment.” “Look, sweetheart,” Ferreira said condescendingly. “Harassment is when a man approaches a beautiful woman. You have nothing to worry about.” The insult was direct, cruel, and unprovoked. Even Cardoso took an involuntary step forward. “This has gone too far,” he said firmly. “Matos, enough.”
“Cardoso,” Matos turned, furious. “Last warning. Back to the patrol car.” “No, not while you’re doing this.” “So you’re choosing sides?” Matos stepped toward him. “You’re going to defend that instead of your fellow officers?” Jordana gently touched Cardoso’s arm. “Officer, I truly appreciate it, but don’t risk your career for me.” Cardoso looked at her differently now. There was something in her posture, in her calm. She wasn’t helpless—she knew exactly what she was doing.
Matos turned back to her. “Do you know what your problem is? People like you always think they know more than everyone else. Always questioning authority, always acting superior.” “I don’t think I’m superior,” she replied. “I just believe I deserve basic respect, like any human being.” “Respect?” Ferreira laughed. “Respect is earned—and you haven’t earned anything.”
“Look at your cheap suit, your old car. You probably live in a tiny apartment, barely paying your bills—and you want respect?” “My financial situation is none of your concern.” “It has everything to do with it,” Matos insisted. “People like you are always looking up, always envying, always wanting to be what they’re not. Admit it—you don’t belong here, that space isn’t yours, you should be somewhere else doing work that matches your level.” The silence grew heavy. Jordana looked at him steadily.
“My level,” she repeated softly. “I see. And what would my level be, according to you?” Matos hesitated, but pride wouldn’t let him back down. “You know what it is.” “I don’t. Explain it.” Ferreira glanced around nervously. “Manual work. Simple service. Something that doesn’t require higher education.” “And why do you think I don’t have education?” “Because it shows!” Matos snapped. “Because people like you don’t get where people like you do,” Jordana finished. “That’s exactly it. And what distinguishes people like me from people like you?”
Matos opened his mouth, closed it—he didn’t dare say it. “Education. Opportunities. Character.” “Character?” Jordana repeated. “You’re preventing me from working without reason. Is that character?” “I have a badge—I have authority.” “A badge is not character. It’s just metal.” Ferreira tried to mock her. “See? She respects nothing.” “I respect the law,” Jordana replied. “More than you imagine.”
“Enough!” Matos shouted. “Are you leaving right now?” “I am not leaving,” she said firmly. “This is my space.” “Your space? Come here.” He walked toward the Honda. Jordana followed. Ferreira behind. Cardoso too—concerned. Matos pointed at the parking sign. “See what it says, Jordana?”
She finally read it.
Reserved.
Dr. Jordana Santos, Judge of the Third Criminal Court.
Matos read it aloud mockingly. “Dr. Jordana Santos. So you’re Dr. Jordana Santos?” Jordana looked him straight in the eyes. “I am.” “No, you’re not,” he laughed. “You’re not a doctor of anything. You probably saw the name on the sign and thought you could park here—or maybe you were hired with a similar name and got confused.”
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