The morning after, nothing looked occupied yet everything felt claimed. In New York, cameras pressed against the courthouse glass as if proximity could explain the sight of a foreign head of state reduced to a defendant number. Prosecutors spoke of narco-trafficking and democracy; defense lawyers spoke of invasions wearing legal uniforms. Outside, protesters on opposite sides shouted the same word—“justice”—with opposite meanings.

In Caracas, the power vacuum hissed like a live wire. Generals measured their loyalties against their chances. Neighbors listened for helicopters at night and for rumors by day. Some celebrated, convinced that no tyrant should be beyond reach. Others watched the sky, memorizing the sound of foreign jets, wondering when “law enforcement” would become the new language of regime change. Long after the trial transcripts yellow, the true verdict will linger in every small nation’s fear that its flag is only as strong as the silence before the next knock.