“What an awful place, Hipo, and scary!” said Santa, turning away from the window.

“And a good thing, Santita, that neither you nor I will have reason to come back,” declared Hipólito, feeling his way toward their pleasant corner with his cane and holding Santa's two hands in his.

The bailiff returned at around midnight with his arms full of food and drink, and needless to say, was immediately mobbed, as if by a band of starving castaways. The trial continued in the main courtroom, and they had still not been called to testify. The guests at the meal were the bailiff, who did not need to be invited twice, and the two police guarding the door and window, who politely refused the first invitation, but finally gave in, tempted by the smell of food and exhausted by their long vigil. The two had to eat standing and using only their left hands, but everyone else could spread the food out and sit where they liked, which the bailiff assured them was routine practice when a trial went on for so long. For a few minutes, guards and the guarded fraternized unselfconsciously with their mouths full. To disguise the pop of beer bottles being opened, they all pretended to laugh or cough at once. Santa put sugar in Hipólito's cup of coffee and liquor and stirred it.

“Give it here,” she said to Jenaro. “You're going to spill it and I want to fix it for him.”

Santa and Hipólito bumped into each other clumsily as she insisted on stirring too much and he tried to make his gestures less tentative and blind.

Suddenly, Santa felt a powerful chill and began to tremble uncontrollably, despite her efforts to control the shaking and despite the wraps that they gave her.

“Why are you trembling, Santita? Do you feel bad?” asked Hipólito, alarmed.

“No, not bad. I must have caught a chill …” she replied with difficulty, so severely did her teeth chatter. “Feel how cold I am!”

A cold draft pushed the half-open door, making its hinges creak unsettlingly.

Just then another bailiff entered with another police guard and interrupted the meal with brusque ill-humor:

“Josefa Córdoba … time to testify!”

“Thank God, hijo,” said Pepa, getting up sluggishly, stretching, and taking five or six consecutive puffs on her Banquero del Destino. “Okay, let's go.”

The other women gathered around Santa, who continued to shake. They put various wraps around her and agreed that something was wrong. Dismayed by this turn of events, all Hipólito could think to do was blame the draft and curse it. One of the girls confused and worsened matters by making a perfunctory examination and declaring that the pain was in Santa's ribs.

“Look, breathe in, breathe in … deep! Now, don't your ribs hurt?”

Fortunately, Santa's turn to testify appeared to be among the last. In the meantime, Pepa returned to the witness waiting room—although this was strictly against the rules—and the other girls were called one by one.