The Cartel Lawyer: A Legal Thriller
Page 4
“I appreciate your time,” I said before I opened my briefcase and placed the ill-typed offer inside next to my laptop.
“You have our offer in hand,” Alvaro said as he stood and held out his hand for me to shake. “Give me your answer by Monday, take it or leave it.”
Chapter 3
“I’ll let you know,” I said as I stood up.
The intimidating man nodded his head, but he was done with me, and he had nothing else to say as he sat back in his leather office chair and reached for his cell phone. He flipped the device over, frowned again at the message he had just received, and then glanced up at me with his almost black eyes as he waited for me to leave so he could continue his work.
I bobbed my head, then walked out of the office and down the unsteady metal staircase to the main floor. The hallway that led to the bathrooms was quiet, but the main warehouse still echoed with the shouts and orders of the supervisors as the large crates were moved out of the metal shipping containers.
My beat up blue Honda Civic looked even more pathetic next to Alvaro Cruz’s brand new, shiny, black Mercedes-Benz S Class, though my car fit in better with the dirt and grime that covered the shipyards and the smell of fish that clung to the air itself. It was hard not to picture myself in such a classy car, though, especially with the company’s offer in my briefcase.
With a sigh, I climbed into the Civic and turned the key. I glanced at the Benz again, and pondered how perfectly timed the company’s offer had been. I hadn’t accepted the position at Hancock, Garcia, and Smith, so I was still available. And now, I was desperate for cash and I knew if my mother hadn’t been diagnosed with cancer, I wouldn’t even be considering the possibility of working for Fuentes Shipping.
I cranked the AC to fight against the afternoon heat, put my car in reverse, and then drove out of the shipyard. The docks fell away behind me as I made my way to my office, but all I could think about were the ships and containers I’d seen lined along the docks. I just hoped that nothing critical had come in, because once I filed the paperwork for Perez, I intended to spend the rest of the day researching the Fuentes Shipping Company.
The drive to the parking garage next to the Public Defender’s Office was less stressful than the drive to the shipyard, but my mind was preoccupied with my mother, her diagnosis, and the strange offer, so I barely noticed the traffic. I parked in my usual spot, then hurried down the sidewalk to the tower that the Public Defender’s Office rented from the University of Miami.
I darted past the paralegals and other attorneys without so much as a hello and quickly buried myself in my cubicle. The tiny space with its gray makeshift walls was just big enough for my desk, a small office chair that made me feel like a giant even when it was raised all the way up, a black plastic chair for my clients, and a two drawer filing cabinet where I locked my case files.
The inbox already had a new case in it, but I ignored it as I plopped down in my chair, and then readjusted it so that I wasn’t on the floor. I needed a new seat, one that was made for a six foot tall man, but it was an expense that I didn’t want to pay, especially if I was on my way out. It was an argument I had with myself every time I sat down in my cubicle, and it had become much more relevant with the two new job offers.
“Hey, Torres!” my colleague, Stephen, said as he popped his head around the side of my cubicle wall. “Congrats on the Diego Perez case. Man, you’re going to be the talk of the courthouse for a while.”
“Thanks,” I muttered while I pulled the papers I needed to file out of my briefcase.
“I’ll talk to you later, man,” my coworker replied as he realized I wasn’t in the mood to talk. “Know you gotta get the filing done.”
I booted up my work computer, then grabbed the papers I needed to scan in, and made my way to the copier slash fax slash scanner. But all I could think about as I stood in front of the machine was how frail my mother had looked when she shuffled into the kitchen that morning. Even though she had slept later and longer than usual, the bags under her eyes seemed to be darker, and in the early light of day I could see just how much weight she had lost in the few weeks since I had seen her.
“Rob,” one of the paralegals, Rina, greeted me as she strolled up to the ancient printer with a file in her manicured hand. “I put a new case in your inbox. It should be pretty easy for you to take care of.”
“I saw it,” I said with a small smile. “I’ll get to it later.”
“Is everything okay, sugar?” the southern woman asked as she cocked her head to the side and put a hand on her hip. “You’re usually a little bit… peppier… after you win a case.”
“Sure,” I responded with a half-hearted shrug.
She pursed her painted red lips and narrowed her eyes at me, but she didn’t say anything else as I walked back to my cubicle, and to the bright login screen on my computer. The old machine had seen better days, but since the Public Defender’s Office wasn’t exactly flush with cash, it wouldn’t see retirement anytime soon. It was functional enough to send and receive emails, though, and it could handle basic search requests, so I tried not to be too irritated when it whined and took forever to load the home screen.
When it was finally ready, I pulled up my email and retrieved the digital copies of the papers that I had sent to myself from the printer. I sent the files to the Judge, the clerk of the court, and my boss, and then turned to the rest of the paperwork I had to finish. I refused to think about Fuentes Shipping Company until I was done, but that meant my mind kept drifting back to my mother instead.
She had raised me as a single mother since I was little. Her highschool sweetheart had been my father, but he had died in a car wreck that the cops had blamed on exhaustion, though my mama had always blamed the boss who’d insisted that my father work almost nonstop for two weeks straight because he was too cheap to hire a temp to help out. She’d worked three jobs to put me through college and law school, and after my father died, her entire life had revolved around me. It was my turn to return that gift, and that meant I would do whatever I could to take care of her while she was sick.
I realized that I’d been staring blankly at the computer screen for nearly an hour, so I pushed the worry for my mom to the back of my mind for a moment, next to the offer from Fuentes, and picked up the file in my inbox. One way or the other, it was probably my last case with the Public Defender’s Office, but I still needed to give it my full attention. I scanned the file quickly, and then dialed the contact number that was listed.
“Rick Smith?” I asked when someone picked up the phone.
“Yeah, who's this?” a young man snapped.
“This is Rob Torres,” I explained. “I’m the public defender that’s been assigned to your case. Can you come in today to discuss what we’re going to do?”
“Today?” the man repeated and then whispered something to someone he was with. “Yeah, sure. I’m nearby. I’ll be there in five.”
“Great. I’ll--” I stared at the phone in irritation as I realized the kid had hung up on me.
I sighed, and then flipped through his case file again. It was his second petty theft charge in as many months. The first time, he’d served the full thirty days of his sentence, and he’d been released just a few weeks ago. But he’d already been picked up for trying to shoplift a new gaming system, and I sighed as I wondered what story he would offer to excuse this second theft.
“Yo, Torres, right?” a floppy, blonde-haired young man in baggy jeans and t-shirt said as he stood in the entry to my cubicle.
He had a tattoo of a naked woman on his right forearm, and his clothes were so wrinkled that I was pretty sure he’d slept in them. His shoes were the only pristine part of his outfit, and I knew they cost a few hundred dollars.
“Yes,” I said. “Please take a seat. You’re Rick?”
“Fo’ sure,” the young criminal replied and gave me a lopsided grin as he flopped down into the black plastic chair. “I heard you the best.”
“Yo, I was framed!” Rick exclaimed. “I’s just tryin’ ta find the register, and then that old grandpa started screamin’ that I was tryna’ rabbit.”
“Right,” I responded and nodded my head. “It says here you ran when the security guard tried to stop you?”
“I’m not tryna’ go back,” the junior thief rolled his eyes. “So you gonna get me off, right?”
“You’ve been out of prison less than thirty days,” I told him as I turned to look at him fully. “They have you on camera trying to steal the game system. And you tried to run when you were caught.”
“So you not gonna do nothin’, then?” the blonde man huffed and folded his arms over his chest as he glared at me. “You just another suit. An’ I heard you was actually good at what you do.”
“I’m very good at what I do,” I snapped. “But there’s not much I can do with a perp who gets caught on camera, disrespects the cops who catch him, and is just out of prison.” I took a deep breath and sat up to my full height so the smaller man would know that I was not to be trifled with. “I can probably get you community service. But you’ll have to actually seem like you want to make a change in your life. If you think you can do that… then I’ll call the prosecutor. If not, then you’re welcome to find yourself another lawyer.”
“Damn,” Rick shook his head, and his shoulders hunched in on themselves as his ego deflated. “A’ight. I’m sorry. I’ll do what you tell me.”
“Good,” I said. “If you see my number, then I expect you to answer the phone. And don’t get into any more trouble until after the trial or I won’t even be able to keep you from the full one-year sentence.”
“Yes, sir,” the humbled young man said as he stood. “I appreciate you takin’ my case. Sorry if I made ya mad.”
“It’s fine,” I replied while I forced myself to smile at my new client. “I’ll see you later. Remember to stay out of trouble.”
“Fo’ sure,” the junior thief bobbed his head.
His cheeks were red from embarrassment, and he quickly ducked out of my cubicle before I could change my mind about representing him. I sighed, though, when I could hear his bravado return as he hit on Rina. The young man had recovered quickly from my rebuke, and I shook my head as I overheard him trying to convince the beautiful middle-aged woman to give a younger man a chance. But the southern paralegal was a force of nature, and she had no interest in any of the men that strolled through our offices. As I could have predicted, she smacked down his request with a sharp retort and a threat to have him bodily removed from the premises.
I started an email to the prosecutor for Rick’s case, and then wondered if I should even bother. But for the moment, Smith was my client and that meant I had to do everything I could for him. So I sent a short email suggesting we discuss my client’s possible sentence and prepared for the bargaining session that would follow. He’d probably counter my ten days of community service with the full year in prison, we’d argue a bit, and then we’d end it over lunch at a burger joint with a handshake and my client doing two-hundred-and-fifty hours of community service.
Once that was done, I looked around the small space that I would soon leave. I’d been there for a few years, but there was nothing personal about it. The walls were completely bare, and though I’d had a calendar early on, I’d stopped buying new ones when I realized it was only depressing me to watch the days go by. And I didn’t trust my wayward clients enough to have any pictures of my mother up. She’d complained when she first stopped by, and I’d had to explain that some of my clients were less than honorable, and that if I had a picture of her, she might become a target if their case didn’t go well.
I realized that if I chose Hancock, Garcia, and Smith, I would be able to have a picture of her and anyone else I wanted. I could have an actual office to call my own and not a cubicle with moveable walls. I might even have a decent office chair and view out of a window instead of blank walls and fluorescent lights.
The job with Fuentes Shipping was a little more uncertain. They seemed like an ordinary import company on the surface, but Alvaro Cruz gave the impression that he could break my legs without much effort. As much as I wanted to take their offer, I still wasn’t convinced that the company was legitimate, or that I wouldn’t end up working for some cartel.
I sighed, and then decided it was time for me to do some research on the mysterious Fuentes Shipping Company before I took the job offer completely off the table. After all, it was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I’d make more than enough money to support myself and my mother, even after she went through her treatments and was healthy again.
The great and powerful Google found their website quickly, so I opened it and found a mundane company webpage with a vague description of what they could import. There was a page that offered services for various shipping containers, and a number to call for a price quote. Most of their imports were on a larger scale, and though their webpage talked about renting space in a cargo container, most of it talked about purchasing the entire metal box or several at once.
When I went back to the Google search results, I found that there were a few news articles that referenced the company. Some of the pieces were about the money the company had donated to the Cuban community through shelters and various charities, but a few mentioned drug busts down at the docks. Of course, the cops and the Feds were always interested in any cargo from South America, but Fuentes Shipping seemed to be noted more than any other company.
There were a few conspiracy articles that said the company was just a front for the Cuban cartel, and one journalist pointed out that the Fuentes name had often been associated with criminals in Cuba. The cops hadn’t been able to pin anything down, so other than the raids, nothing ever seemed to happen. The company and its officers went about their business, but the company always seemed to be under scrutiny from law enforcement.
I sighed and closed the last webpage. There was no way I would work for the cartel since it would be considerably more dangerous than the work I did at the Public Defender’s Office. After all, I wanted to help save my mom’s life, not put her in more danger.
Besides, if my mother ever found out that I worked for a company that was even rumored to have cartel ties, she’d worry about me constantly. No, I couldn’t do it, even if the police hadn’t been able to link them to any actual drugs. I couldn’t align myself with such a violent and criminal company, though they would pay me well enough that I could have a hefty life insurance policy for my mom just in case anything went wrong.
And just from a moral standpoint, I couldn’t work for a drug cartel, tenuous ties or not. How could I, in good faith, be an officer of the court and still represent such people? No, I couldn’t do it.
I had more important things to take care of at the moment anyway rather than contemplating the potential drug ties of a company I would never work for. I picked up my cell phone and searched through the contact list until I found the number to my mother’s doctor.
“Hello, you’ve reached the medical offices of Dr. Singh, how may I be of service today?” a young, chipper woman asked after the third ring.
“Good afternoon, my name is Roberto Torres,” I replied. “I’m calling on behalf of my mother, Jasmine Torres. She’s a patient of Dr. Singh.”
“Mr. Torres,” the woman repeated, and I heard the familiar tap of keys as she looked up my mother’s names in her system. “Ah, yes. Mrs. Torres is your mother, you said?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I responded and started to drum my fingers on my desk to release some of the nervous energy that always came with a call to the doctor’s office. “I should be listed as her emergency contact and as someone who can have access to her medical files.”
“Oh, yes,” the chipper woman said, and I could hear the change in her voice as she read my mother’s diag
nosis. “How can I help you today, Mr. Torres?”
“I need a referral to an oncologist,” I told her, though as the words left my mouth, my voice hitched, and I had to fight back the overwhelming sadness that rushed to the surface.
“The doctor has already sent a referral over to an oncologist,” the woman on the other end of the line said with a few more taps on her keyboard. “I can give you their information. They should be waiting for your call.”
“I appreciate that,” I said as I began to root through my desk drawer in search of a pen and a pad of paper. “I’m ready.”
I clicked the ballpoint pen from the University of Miami Hospital and Clinics and then waited for the receptionist to give me the name and the number of the oncologist that would hopefully save my mother’s life.
“His name is Dr. Allen Brown,” the woman said. “And his number is--” She paused as she checked the number, and then rattled it off for me. “Is there anything else that I can help you with today, Mr. Torres?”
“No,” I answered. “Thank you for your help.”
“Of course,” she said, and her voice held a hint of sadness instead of the cheery tone she had greeted with me. “I am truly sorry. I hope that Dr. Brown is able to help your mother.”
“Me, too,” I replied while I blinked away the tears that threatened to spill over. “Thanks for your help.”
I ended the call, and then closed my eyes as I took a deep, steadying breath. When I felt like I wouldn’t burst into tears, I dialed the number to the oncologist and held my breath as I listened to the phone ring for what seemed like forever.
“Good afternoon, you’ve reached the office of Dr. Allen Brown, Oncologist,” the tired voice of a woman said when she finally picked up. “How may I help you today?”
“Hello,” I said. “My name is Roberto Torres. I believe my mother’s doctor sent a referral to your office. Her name is Jasmine Torres.”