Gangster's Court

by Adam Van Susteren

  Gangster’s Court

  “Not every bad thing that happens is karma and not every good thing that happens is luck.” – El Chapo

  Gangster’s Court is a work of fiction. That means any resemblance to a person, location, or event is the author’s imagination and not real.

  Copyright © 2020 by Adam Van Susteren

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1986504737

  ISBN-13: 978-1986504737

  Independently Published

  Also written by Adam Van Susteren:

  Aaron Baker Series

  Wounded By Her Guardian

  Sunshine or Lead

  The Dinosaur Lawyer

  Jo Channing Series

  Blanket Immunity

  Gangster’s Court

  Stand Alone

  How to Write a Novel in 20 Steps

  Gangster’s Court

  A Legal Thriller By:

  Adam Van Susteren

  1

  “People versus Marcos Omar,” the bailiff bellowed to the large, sparsely filled courtroom.

  Judge Joanna P. Channing froze, staring down at her afternoon docket.

  “Judge,” the court clerk whispered, holding out a file.

  Jo continued staring at her docket, trying to understand how her former client and co-conspirator could possibly be in her department. On her traffic arraignment calendar.

  “Judge,” the clerk whispered again.

  Jo reached for the file and looked around her courtroom. Her eyes settled on a short bald man wearing a suit and tie approaching the lectern.

  It’s you, Jo thought, gulping as she opened the file. Struggling to appear unfazed, she read, “Vehicle Code Section 24600(b).” She looked up at Omar. An insider’s grin flashed across his face. “How do you plead?”

  “The taillight is fixed.”

  Jo stared at Omar, the remaining twenty people in the gallery waiting for their cases were just a blur. “Did you get it signed off as fixed?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Is the car here?”

  Omar pointed over his shoulder towards the back of Jo’s courtroom. “Right outside.”

  She closed his file and set it to the side. “If you want to wait until the end of my calendar, you can see if my deputy will sign off on it for you. Or you can take it to the sheriff’s office and bring the sign-off form to the clerk’s office.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  Jo gestured toward the front row. “Have a seat.”

  Jo looked down at her docket for the next case, trying to calm the fluttering in her chest.

  The bailiff called, “Lisa Popkins.”

  Jo retrieved the Popkins file from the clerk, opened it, read the charges and asked for a plea. This continued from P-Z, finally concluding with Sam Zimmer’s plea of guilty to a speeding ticket.

  With the afternoon calendar cleared, Jo watched her clerk press the ‘stop record’ button. Jo turned towards Omar, thinking of how to belay any suspicion from her clerk and two bailiffs. “Mister… Omar is it?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Omar said, seated in the front row.

  “I feel like we’ve met before. Or I know you somehow.” Jo’s pulse pounded in her ears. She leaned forward slightly, hoping Omar would follow her lead and not let her staff know about their past.

  “I’m friends with a former client of yours. We met on his case.”

  “That’s right,” Jo tapped the bench lightly. She turned towards the tall skinny deputy. “Pete, would you mind signing off on Mr. Omar’s ticket, if it’s fixed? Then bring him back to my chambers?”

  “Sure, Your Honor,” Pete said.

  Jo turned to watch the bailiff walk Omar out of her courtroom. The other bailiff left through another door, leaving just Jo and Annette, her court clerk, who intensely entered data from the day’s hearings into a computer.

  Jo picked up the Omar file. “Annette,” she said, handing it over.

  Annette looked up from her computer screen, reached over and took the file. “Small world?”

  “Yeah.”

  Annette placed the file on her stack. “You’ve been here just over a month on this rotation, is that the first person you knew?”

  Jo leaned back in her chair, trying to look relaxed. “I think so.”

  “With a hundred cases to arraign and try every day, it was only a matter of time.” Annette leaned away from her screen. “You know, on Judge Tower’s rotation through here, he knew like twenty people during his two months. Very first case he called was his family doctor.”

  Jo forced a smile. “Guess I’m not as popular.”

  “I thought you might be a little stressed out. I know it’s your department for the next few weeks, but I’ve been here going on twenty years. If you ever want to pull me aside, I’m happy to help. And for the record, on a fix-it ticket like that, even if you were his sister I don’t know that you’d have to recuse yourself,” Annette said with a tiny chuckle.

  “Thank you.”

  Annette gave a warm smile. “Sometimes judges who rotate through think they’re above traffic court and are rude to us. You’ve been a pleasure to work for.”

  Jo smiled back. “Thank you. Honestly, I don’t know how I could handle this calendar without you.”

  Jo looked at her watch as her mind raced. The watch sparked a memory of the envelope stuffed with thirty thousand dollars that Omar gave to her after they nearly killed a man together.

  “I’m going to chambers. If Mr. Omar comes back, please let him in.”

  “Okay, Judge.”

  Jo stepped down from the bench, gentle puffs of air wafting up her robe with each step through the hallway. She entered her temporary chambers, closed the door, unzipped her robe, and hung it on the old wooden coat and hat stand.

  Jo re-tucked her white blouse into her slacks before walking to her desk. She looked out the large window overlooking the employee parking lot. It wasn’t much of a view, but it was a heck of a lot better than the windowless office where she first met Omar.

  “Omar,” Jo whispered, rubbing her forehead. She knew he’d call one day—she owed him too much for him not to collect. She reached below her desk, retrieved her cell phone from her purse, and was almost finished with a text message to her boyfriend when a knock on the open door stole her attention.

  “His light is fixed,” the tall bailiff said, towering over Omar. “You still want to talk with him?”

  Jo stood. “Yes. Thank you.” She approached and shook Omar’s hand.

  The bailiff looked Omar over. “Judge, I’ll be right next door when you’re ready to have me to escort him out.”

  “Thank you.” Jo smiled politely, trying to indicate she felt no threat in meeting with Omar.

  The bailiff turned, Jo closed the door. She pointed to the gray fabric couch under the window. “Want to sit?”

  Omar walked toward the couch. “I miss your old office.” He unbuttoned his suit coat and sat.

  “Not me.” Jo sat across from Omar on a wood chair, a coffee table between them. She watched Omar’s eyes dart around the room, pausing to focus on the back of a picture frame on her desk.

  “How’s Zeee?” Omar asked, accentuating the pronunciation of Jo’s boyfriend, Dzuy.

  “He’s doing well.” Jo looked at the frame. “How did you know that was a picture of us?”

  “Lucky guess.” Omar looked at Jo. “I’m glad. I was afraid you two might not make it after that day. I liked him.”

  “Thank you.” Jo sighed. “And, thank you.”

  Omar didn’t respond, so Jo continued, “So, what can I do for you?”

  Omar shrugged. “You asked me to come in here.”

  Jo titled her head slightly. “You didn’t plan this to com
e see me?”

  Omar smirked. “I wouldn’t have some fat little piglet break my taillight to come see you. I’d call.”

  Jo felt a wave of relief wash over her, Omar wasn’t here to ask something of her. “What happened?”

  “I’ve been getting harassed by this one cop. A real chunker. Officer Maggiore. She bashed in my taillight and wrote me the ticket.”

  “Really?” Jo asked out of instinct, not disbelief.

  Omar nodded. “Took her like four hits with the baton.”

  “Did you file a police report?”

  Omar smirked. “She’s a cop. What judge would take my side?”

  “With proof, every judge. Without proof…” Jo let her words hang in the air.

  “Exactly.”

  “Why would she do this? It doesn’t make sense,” Jo asked, spreading her hands.

  “She’s been following me. On and off duty.”

  Jo held up a hand. “If this could be a criminal charge against you, I can’t hear about it. Even if the case isn’t before me, I can’t hear about a potential case in my jurisdiction.”

  Omar smirked. “Better chance of you sitting next to me than across from me if this goes to trial.”

  Jo deflated. “It’s about Brad?” she asked softly.

  “This Maggiore, she’s not a detective, just a street cop. She’s been following me around. First time she pulled me over, she said she knew who I was. Asked why I never made a statement about Brad’s involvement with Cassie.”

  “What?” Jo asked with confusion.

  “She asked me how Brad has a meeting with me and dies a few days later. That it’s some coincidence, given my line of work.”

  “Brad must have told her he was going to see you.”

  “Must have.” Omar nodded agreement.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “That Brad never hired me. That I read about what happened in the papers, there was no money to collect, so there was no reason for me to want to hurt Brad.”

  “Smart.” Jo took a moment to think. “Anyone else talk to you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then it doesn’t sound like a formal investigation. Maybe she’s a close friend or ex-girlfriend of Brad’s?”

  “Seems like the type to be his booty call, then got sprung.”

  Jo clenched her jaw as she thought.

  Omar asked, “What?”

  “If we have some hard-charging cop.” She shook her head. “If this gets formal, we can’t talk to the police. Lawyer up and invoke the Fifth.”

  “I thought you couldn’t give legal advice,” Omar said with a smirk.

  Jo rolled her eyes, stood and walked to her desk. After a few clicks and keystrokes she groaned.

  “What?”

  Jo leaned around her monitor to look at Omar. “Cassie’s trial is scheduled to start in two weeks. This Maggiore was probably trying to shake something loose before then.” She cleared the search and returned to her seat across from Omar.

  Omar pantomimed a bash to a taillight. “She did that a month ago. Been in my grill for longer than that.”

  “You on the witness list?” Jo asked.

  “No. You?”

  Jo shook her head.

  Omar shrugged. “Any ideas what I should do about Maggiore?”

  “Get video. If she harasses you again, report her. Document it.”

  “I guess that’s one way to handle it.”

  Jo froze with fear. If that was a threat to an officer’s life she had to report it. “That’s the only way,” she said sternly, “other than leaving town.”

  Omar shrugged.

  “Hey, look.” Jo softened. “What you did when I started my practice. I’ll never forget. I’m ready to repay that retainer whenever you need it. I owe you. I understand that. I just want you to know that I can’t be a part of any gray areas of the law.”

  Omar smirked.

  “What?”

  “I’m no judge but shouldn’t you have disclosed you were my lawyer and let someone else handle my traffic case?”

  Jo swallowed. “Maybe.”

  “Well then.” Omar stood and started for the door.

  Jo rose and gently stopped him. She looked down at Omar, her heels making her a good six inches taller than him. “Wait.”

  Omar stopped, standing next to Jo.

  “I know how much I owe you,” Jo said softly.

  “Me too,” Omar said, brushing past her to leave.

  2

  Omar took his suit coat off, put it on a hanger, and placed it on the hook above the back seat of his little black Audi S5 with its tinted windows. He glided into his seat, put on his Bvlgari sunglasses, and drove towards his mother’s taco shop.

  A mischievous grin spread across his face. I got a judge. The smile faded as he pondered how to parlay his connection with Jo into something truly meaningful.

  He tapped on the steering wheel in rhythm to Romeo Santos’ Sobredosis as possibilities crossed his mind.

  “Ha!” he exclaimed when the chorus came. It was Jo drugging Brad Gecina to the point of sobredosis, overdose, that so heavily indebted Jo to him.

  Omar thought he caught a glimpse of a cop car behind him. Officer Maggiore? He switched to the right lane and slowed his car below the speed limit. His eyes darted from his windshield to his rearview until he confirmed it was an old Asian man, not likely a cop, definitely not the gordita cop. Satisfied that no one slowed to follow him, he sped back up to just over the speed limit.

  I need Officer Gordita off my ass. Omar smirked at his nickname for Officer Maggiore. His smirk disappeared and he furrowed his brow. I need a lawyer.

  Omar turned the music down and called the cocaine dealer who introduced him to Jo.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s Omar. Did that new lawyer finish out your case?”

  “Yeah. We got plea to possession, no intent. He use judge plan. I do no more jail. Just probation.”

  Omar rubbed the back of his neck, trying to figure out how to phrase this in case either phone was bugged. “He seem, smart?”

  “Yeah.”

  Omar frowned. He didn’t know how to ask if Tai thought the lawyer would be part of a criminal scheme. “Text me his number.”

  “Okay.”

  Omar hung up. A few seconds later he exited the freeway, keeping an eye open for any cars that might be following him.

  His phone buzzed with the lawyer’s number. Omar tapped the screen to dial it.

  “Law office of Brian Hogan,” a woman answered.

  “Is he available?”

  “Let me check.”

  Omar waited on the phone at the stop light.

  “Brian speaking,” came over Omar’s speakers.

  “Have time for a new client meeting today?”

  “I’m not sure, I’m pretty busy. With whom am I speaking?”

  “Marcos Omar. I’ll pay for the consult,” Omar said as he turned left to cross the bridge over Highway 5.

  “Then I guess I could do a quick meeting. Two hundred for an hour if you can come to my office in El Cajon. What time works for you?”

  Omar signaled left at the next stoplight to go back to the highway. “Twenty minutes.”

  “Okay. Do you need the address?”

  “Text it to me so I can put it in my GPS.”

  “Okay. The number you called from?”

  “Yeah.” Omar hung up. He focused on the road. Glancing in his rearview mirror, he thought, getting off an exit past the destination, then turning around on the freeway, great way to spot a tail.

  He called the drug dealer again.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s Omar. Meet me at the lawyer’s office in a half hour.”

  “Uh, okay. The one in El Cajon?”

  “Yeah.” Omar hung up.

  Fifteen minutes later he pulled into the parking lot of a little strip mall, covered in heavily textured brown stucco. Sandwiched between Penn’s Glass Repair and Buffy’s Bail Bonds was the la
w firm of Hogan & Associates.

  As Omar approached the door, he heard the hum of air conditioning coming from units cut into the blacked out, reflective windows of each business. No central air, must be low rent.

  He looked over all the businesses and sniffed hard at the hot air. No garbage, must be an alley.

  Omar knocked on the door before turning the knob and pushing. His recently shined black dress shoes stepped onto the light blue carpet. Closing the door behind him gave him respite from the sun but left him alone in a tiny waiting area with a bank teller-like window five feet from the front door. No chairs. What kind of waiting room is this? A stiflingly hot, stuffy, cramped, and overall miserable tiny box.

  “Hello,” Omar called out.

  Omar stepped next to the glass and tried to peek into the office. It reminded him of a cramped currency exchange. Where’s the secretary that took my call? She would be safe behind the glass—thick glass, probably thick enough to stop a bullet. Same with the door to the office. This was much more secure than Jo’s old office.

  He took a step back, noting two different video cameras.

  It’s fucking hot. Omar loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He figured the window air conditioner must pour into the main office, nothing in here.

  Omar felt a rush of cool air as the door to the office opened. A man well over a foot taller than Omar stood in the doorway. The man, wearing a salmon colored button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, shorts, and flip flops, said with a naturally deep voice, “Hi, I’m Brian Hogan. Welcome.”

  Omar followed Brian into the cold air. “I’m Marcos Omar.”

  “Pleasure,” Brian said, reaching out his hand for Omar to shake.

  Omar gave him a firm shake. “Huge office,” he noted as he looked across a sea of cheap blue carpet.

  “Used to be off-track betting. They had TVs and couches in here,” Brian said, pointing to corners of the large empty room. “This couch is set to capture the AC on these really hot days.”