Chapter 14: The Trial of Jorge Mendoza

Chapter 14: The Trial of Jorge Mendoza

The trial lasted eleven weeks.

Jorge’s defense team attacked everyone.

They called my mother unstable.

They called Rafael a fraud.

They described Karina as a bitter daughter seeking revenge.

They suggested Dr. Valez had invented the murder plot to avoid prison.

But they could not explain the recordings.

They could not erase the financial transfers.

They could not dismiss the chemical evidence preserved for twenty-two years.

And they could not silence my mother.

She entered the courtroom using a cane.

Jorge watched her walk toward the witness stand with the same cold expression he had worn at the hospital.

My mother looked directly at him.

“You thought making me weak would make me surrender,” she said. “You misunderstood what kept me alive.”

The prosecutor asked what had kept her alive.

“My son.”

Jorge’s attorney attempted to challenge my legal right to Rodrigo’s estate based on my biological parentage.

The judge rejected the argument.

Rodrigo had legally acknowledged me as his son from birth. His will named me explicitly. Rafael also renounced any competing claim and affirmed Rodrigo’s intended inheritance.

After four days of deliberation, the jury returned.

Guilty on every major count.

Jorge showed no emotion until the judge ordered Mendoza Urban Development’s assets frozen pending restitution claims.

Then his composure finally broke.

“That land belongs to my family!”

I stood behind the prosecutor’s table.

“No,” I said. “It belonged to the man your family killed.”

The judge sentenced Jorge to decades in prison.

Dr. Valez received a reduced sentence for his cooperation, though the court made clear that age did not erase responsibility.

Karina received probation, community service, and a suspended sentence conditioned on continued testimony.

Outside the courthouse, reporters surrounded me.

They wanted to know what I planned to do with property worth more than seventy million pesos.

I had already made my decision.

But first, I needed to take my mother home.

When we reached her house, the front door was open.

Inside, every room had been destroyed.

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And on the kitchen wall, someone had painted a message:

JORGE WAS NOT THE LAST MENDOZA.