Not Guilty - Kaeyllane Dias

A - Processing
January 15th, 2025, Day one of six

    The red sensor lights blink three times. Diego’s mother stiffens—then starts to cry.
    From her assigned observation post near the barbed-wire perimeter of Facility 17, Mrs. Rios watches the scene unfold through a maze of plexiglass partitions and steel desks. The air smells of bleach and desperation, the same way it does in every detention center along the U.S.-Mexico border. Her team from the Coalition for Algorithmic Justice (CAJ) has spread out strategically: Sarah documenting times and faces near the main door, Javier positioned by the intake desk, and Marcus hovering near the exit with his tablet ready.
    The guard manning Station Four keeps his eyes fixed on his screen, deliberately ignoring the woman and her small son—who can't be older than three—clutching her skirt, his thin jacket offering little protection against the facility's aggressive air conditioning.
    The overhead announcement flashes in cold, unfeeling letters on digital screens: "Welcome to Facility 17. Year 2025. Artificial Intelligence Border Systems Active." The message repeats in Spanish, its mechanical efficiency cutting through the air. This was no ordinary immigration checkpoint—Facility 17 was a fully automated detention center, where algorithms dictated asylum seekers' fates.
    Through reinforced windows, the winter morning sun barely penetrates the thick glass, casting weak shadows across polished floors. Beyond the fences, razor wire coils glisten with frost under a slate-gray sky. Surveillance drones circle in precise patterns, their sensors scanning endlessly for signs of dissent or desperation.
    A guard shifts his weight, hand hovering near his weapon. The movement catches Mrs. Rios's attention, and she steps forward, heels striking against polished concrete. Each tap echoes through the space, competing with the hum of machinery that seems to pulse through the walls themselves. A line of exhausted detainees shuffles forward, corralled by armed guards and faceless machines. Towers loom above them, cameras swiveling, feeding endless streams of data into invisible systems.
    The processing gate flashes its verdict in bold red letters:
    "RISK DETECTED – DETAIN INDEFINITELY."
    "Who flagged him?" Mrs. Rios's voice cuts through the mechanical ambiance. She doesn't need to raise it – authority radiates from every syllable.
    The nearest officer doesn't look up from his tablet. "Algorithm did. Category Three risk. Facial recognition found previous matches." He gestures vaguely toward the woman. "It's automated."
    "And wrong." Mrs. Rios's tablet appears in her hand, screen illuminating her sharp features. "Her name is Juana Torres. That boy is her son, Diego. Your system is marking her as suspicious based solely on shared indigenous facial features. Tell me, does that sound like justice to you?"
    Behind her, her team moves with practiced efficiency – three advocates spreading out to document everything. One photographs the denial screens, another whispers gentle reassurances to Juana in Spanish, while the third takes rapid notes on a secured device. Their first day at Facility 17 has barely begun, but already they've fallen into a grim rhythm, knowing their time here is limited.
    The officer fidgets but holds his ground. "The system shows a 99% match."
    "A 99% match to what?" Mrs. Rios steps closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "To every other brown-skinned mother who's walked through these doors? To every other child you've traumatized with your perfect technology?"
    A door slides open with a hydraulic hiss. The supervisor emerges, clipboard clutched like a shield. His uniform is pristine, badges gleaming under fluorescent lights that wash all color from his face. "Ms. Rios, you know the protocol. Observe all you want, but don't interfere." He checks his watch with a slight smirk. "Besides, everything changes next week.     This investigation won't matter much then."
    "That's where you're wrong," Mrs. Rios turns, eyebrow arched. "Since arriving this morning, I've documented seven cases of your AI targeting indigenous families. Seven mothers facing separation from their children because your system can't tell the difference between facial features and actual threats. This evidence isn't going away. The MIT Media Lab is already analyzing similar patterns across other facilities. Stanford's AI Ethics Institute has started their own investigation."
    The supervisor's smirk falters. "Policy changes—"
    "Don't erase evidence," Mrs. Rios cuts in. "The Algorithm Justice League and the ACLU are building cases. Universities are studying your system's bias. You think this ends next week? This is just the beginning."
    "Por favor," Juana's voice trembles. "Por mi hijo."
    The room falls silent except for Diego's muffled sobs and the ever-present drone of machines. Mrs. Rios crouches down to the boy's eye level, her stern expression melting into something warmer. Around them, other detainees watch with a mixture of fear and desperate hope.
    "Hola, Diego," she says softly in Spanish. "I promise you – this fight isn't over. Not next week, not ever."
    Standing again, she faces the supervisor. Every word falls like a hammer strike. "I'm filing an emergency appeal for this family's release. And for every other family your algorithm has wrongfully detained. When the review board asks why children are being separated from their parents based on facial recognition errors, I expect detailed answers."
    The supervisor's face drains of color, but before he can respond, Mrs. Rios's tablet buzzes – more alerts, more families, more fights ahead. She glances through the facility's glass walls where dozens wait in plastic chairs, their faces carrying the same fear she sees in Juana's eyes. The weight of their silent pleas presses against her shoulders, but she stands straighter under the burden.
    "Start the appeal process," she tells her team, her voice steady and determined. "Document everything. I want every denial, every flag, every algorithmic 'match' from the past month. We're not leaving until we've reviewed every case."
    She turns back to face the supervisor, her expression hardening. "We'll be here all day. I suggest you get comfortable with that fact." Through the glass partition, she catches a glimpse of Diego watching her, his small hand still clutched in his mother's. His eyes follow her movements, filled with a mixture of fear and desperate hope.
    Hours later, she stands in the private lobby of The Grant Tower Hotel, reviewing emails on her phone: responses from Columbia Law School's Center for Race and Justice, meeting requests from the Electronic Frontier Foundation, data analysis updates from MIT. The prestigious hotel has become their base of operations, its fortified Executive Wing and proximity to Facility 17 making it an ideal choice. Her shoulders ache from hours bent over documentation, but each new alliance brings a spark of hope. The soft ding of the elevator brings her back to the present moment.
    In her room, she finds Dante sitting by the window, his guitar resting against the chair. He looks up as she enters, his smile warming their cozy temporary home. The soft glow of the bedside lamps casts a golden hue across the room, and the faint scent of coffee lingers from his afternoon brewing. A half-written song lies on the notepad beside him, the words a mix of Portuguese and English, while a throw blanket from their Brooklyn apartment is draped across the back of his chair – a small touch of home he's brought to make the space their own.
    The room itself has been transformed during the day. Dante has arranged their family photos on the desk—Lucas and Sofia at the beach last summer, their anniversary dinner in São Paulo, the day they'd moved into their Brooklyn apartment. A small electric kettle sits beside his ever-present coffee supplies, and the room service cart still holds the remains of his afternoon composing session—a plate of half-eaten cookies, a dog-eared notebook filled with lyrics.
    "There's my warrior, Morena," he says softly, rising to embrace her. "Tough day?"
    She melts into his arms for a moment, allowing herself this breath of comfort. "Always tough. But necessary." She breathes in his lingering scent—coffee, guitar strings, and home. "The Stanford team wants our data. Columbia Law is organizing a conference. It's growing bigger than just this investigation."
    "That's good, isn't it?" Dante's fingers gently massage her shoulders, working out the knots from another day of tension. "The more people who know, the harder it becomes to ignore."
    "Minha mãe called," he continues, sensing she needs a moment of normalcy. "The kids are having the time of their lives. Lucas apparently convinced her to make brigadeiros at ten in the morning."
    Mrs. Rios laughs despite her exhaustion. "Your mother spoils them rotten." She can picture it clearly—Lucas with his charming smile, so much like his father's, wearing down his grandmother's resistance with the same gentle persistence that has always been his trademark.
    "She's thrilled to have them for the week. Said Sofia's Portuguese is getting better every day." He smiles, adjusting his guitar. "She's even teaching them old Brazilian folk songs. Sofia's apparently mastered 'Se Essa Rua Fosse Minha' already."
    The warmth of childhood memories flickers across her face as she listens to Dante speak of their children. Sofia, at seven, is already showing signs of Dante's musical talent, while Lucas, two years older, has inherited his father's easy way with people.
    "I've been thinking," she says, settling into the comfortable chair he's positioned by the window. "When your tour starts, maybe we could use those stops to connect with local advocacy groups. Build a national network."
    "Thirty-two cities in two months," he says thoughtfully, running a hand through his hair. "That's a lot of potential allies." He pauses, then adds with a smile, "Starting with Boston? The MIT team is there, and the kids love that aquarium."
    "I'd like that." She squeezes his hand, picturing not just Lucas pressing his face against the penguin exhibit or Sofia watching the sea turtle feeding, but meetings with researchers, building connections that could help families like Juana and Diego.
He picks up his guitar. "I wrote something while you were gone. Want to hear?"
    Before she can answer, her phone buzzes—MIT's preliminary analysis of the AI's facial recognition patterns. Mrs. Rios moves to the window, looking out at the border city sprawled below. Somewhere out there, Juana and Diego are trying to comfort each other in detention. "I can't stop thinking about them, Dante. Not just these families, but all the others we haven't found yet."
    He comes to stand beside her, his presence solid and grounding. "Then we keep fighting. Not just here, not just now, but everywhere, always."
She turns to face him, drawing strength from his quiet understanding. "It's going to be a long battle."
    "Come, Morena," he says, leading her to the small couch. "Then you need rest too. The fight will still be there tomorrow."
    She allows herself to be pulled down beside him, her head finding its usual place on his shoulder. Dante begins to strum softly, a gentle melody that seems to catch the city lights flickering below—a constellation of human lives intersecting in the desert night. The music wraps around them like a shelter, creating a momentary refuge from the battles ahead.
    His fingers move across the strings, weaving together notes that speak of hope and determination. Each chord seems to carry the weight of their shared life—their children's laughter in New York, the quiet mornings in their apartment, the strength they draw from each other's presence. The melody rises and falls like breathing, like prayer, reminiscent of the lullabies he still sings to Sofia on restless nights.
    The guitar's quiet notes fill the room, a reminder of the life they've built together, so far from this harsh border landscape. Yet here she is, fighting the same battles she's always fought, with new weapons and new allies. Her phone buzzes again on the table—probably more cases flagged for tomorrow's facility visit—but for these few minutes, she lets it wait.
    In the morning, she will return to the facility, her arsenal filled with evidence and her resolve hardened by the faces of every family she's met today. For now, in this moment, she allows herself to be simply a woman sitting beside her husband, gathering strength from his music and his unwavering support. But tomorrow—tomorrow she will face those cold machines again, will stare down their blinking lights and algorithms, will challenge their every automated judgment until she proves what the evidence already shows:
    Not guilty.

 

Chapter 1:  Cross-Examination

Beatriz waited in the U.S. Customs and Border Protection line at JFK Airport—immigration, as she usually called it—yet nothing about this return felt familiar. Around her, travelers flipped open their sleek Motorola phones or punched at the small buttons of Nokias, their sharp beeps blending with the hum of announcements overhead. A nearby TV screen played silent news captions, the words "2001: Economic Growth Slows" scrolling beneath a weather forecast.
The fluorescent lights buzzed, and the line inched forward, but Beatriz's gaze drifted to the worn edge of her passport. It was new back then, she thought, tracing the faint scuff marks with her thumb—so new, it practically glowed.
A year ago, she had been light and laughing, excited for new adventures with friends who had just graduated with her from Communications School. They were all journalists, eager to explore the contrasts between the first world and their third-world home. Everyone, that is, except Caio Silva, her boyfriend, who hadn't graduated but had decided to join them on this journey.
Now, as she stood, her heart racing with each passing moment, under the stark airport lighting, she glanced at the officers, their expressions unreadable, and felt a knot tighten in her stomach. The line moved slowly, each step forward growing heavier. She caught snippets of conversations around her—some filled with laughter, others with anxious whispers. A chill ran down her spine as she tried to shake off the creeping unease, reminding herself of those carefree days, but the uncertainty hung in the air, heavy and uninvited.
Memories of Caio surfaced as her mind wandered. He was waiting for her in Nantucket, Massachusetts. That's where she wanted to be—where she needed to be. But the knot in her stomach reminded her that things weren't that simple.
They had known each other since first grade, growing up together in Tijuca, a traditional bairro in Rio de Janeiro. It felt like their lives had always been intertwined: they went to the same schools, wandered the same street fairs on weekends, and had the same neighbors. They spent so much time together, and even though they didn't share everything, there was a comfort in their connection—just two kids navigating life side by side. The thought of him brought a wave of nostalgia, reminding her of those simpler days back home.
One afternoon, during her third year of college when they'd finally started dating, Caio had shown up at her door with a worn shoebox tucked under his arm. Inside, carefully preserved, were dozens of little notes he'd written to her over the years but never delivered. Some were scrawled in crayon on scraps of paper, others on his sister's decorative stationery he'd "borrowed" when they were young. Each one captured a moment: stick-figure drawings of them playing at recess, carefully folded paper hearts, and messages like "Você quer ser minha namorada?" Will you be my girlfriend? - written in a wobbly child's handwriting.
They'd sat on her bed, laughing and crying as they went through them. The earliest ones dated back to their first days of school—tiny love declarations from a boy who couldn't yet spell her name correctly. "I kept every single one," he'd admitted, his cheeks flushing. "Even when I thought you'd never see them." Some notes were just simple drawings: Beatriz with her curly hair flying as she jumped rope, or both of them sharing a popsicle at the corner store after school. Each piece of paper told the story of his quiet, steadfast love, growing alongside their friendship through the years.
"I can't believe you waited so long," she'd teased him, touched by the years of unspoken feelings. After all her past relationships, all the guys she'd dated throughout college, here was Caio—her childhood friend—revealing that he'd loved her all along. The thought of that box, now carefully stored in their apartment in Nantucket, still made her smile. It had been the sweetest surprise—discovering that while she'd been experiencing their childhood as best friends, Caio had been silently collecting moments, hoping that someday they might become something more.
Bia, as her friends and family called her, couldn't help but smile at the memories. The name felt warm and known, just like the laughter they shared during those lighthearted afternoons. But the warmth faded as quickly as it came.
"It's your turn," a voice from the front of the line called, snapping her back to the present. Her heart skipped a beat. The smile vanished, replaced by the tight knot of anxiety twisting in her stomach. What questions would the officer ask? Would his sharp gaze over those thin-rimmed glasses send her to the dreaded "salinha"? The small room her family always talked about, where everything came under scrutiny.
"What's the purpose of your visit?"
Bia's throat tightened. She couldn't tell the truth, so she forced herself to lie. "To visit New York," she said, her voice faltering, the words sounding more like a question than a statement.
The officer's eyes locked onto hers, and she felt exposed, as if he could sense the lie in her hesitation. She tried to stay still, but her body betrayed her.
"And have you visited the United States before?"
"Sim... yes," she corrected quickly, feeling the pounding in her chest grow louder. Could he hear her heart beating?
"How long did you stay?"
"Four weeks," she lied again, her voice barely steady.
Her hands began to tremble, and she gripped the edge of her bag. She knew the consequences if she slipped—if she admitted that she'd overstayed her visa and spent almost a year working in a kitchen without authorization, she wouldn't make it past JFK. She could be banned from the U.S. for three years, maybe even ten. The thought of it sent a sharp twist of pain through her stomach, but she had to keep her cool. Not now, not here.
 

Your opening is totally engaging. It drew me in quickly and made me curious. Nice work!