When the reporters left the Santa Teresa penitentiary, the lawyer laid her head on the table and began to sob very softly, so unobtrusively that she didn’t seem like a white woman. Indian women cried like that. Some mestizas. But not white women and certainly not college-educated white women. When she felt Haas’s hand on her shoulder, his touch not a caress or even friendly, maybe just a token gesture, the few tears she’d let fall on the tabletop (a table that smelled of disinfectant and, strangely, of cordite) dried and she lifted her head and gazed at the pale face of her defendant, her
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