The Cartel Lawyer: A Legal Thriller

by Dave Daren

  My studio apartment was completely dark when I finally unlocked the door and stepped inside. I didn’t even bother with the lights, I just locked the deadbolt, and then dropped my briefcase on the small kitchen counter next to an empty glass I’d used for water.

  The worn brown leather couch was a black lump in the darkness of my one room apartment. I managed to avoid it as I stripped down to my boxers and then collapsed onto my soft bed. The sheets and blankets welcomed me as I slid underneath them, though my eyes burned with unshed tears, and all I wanted to do was sleep as I laid my head on my pillow.

  Despite the endless thoughts that buzzed through my mind, my body eventually gave in to the need for sleep. I probably would have stayed that way until the late morning hours if I hadn’t been jolted awake by the sound of vicious pounding on my apartment door.

  I rubbed my eyes in confusion and then squinted at the bright red numbers of my bedside clock. It was midnight, and all I could imagine as the pounding started again was that some drunken friend of one of my neighbors had gone to the wrong apartment. I shook my head, determined to go back to sleep and ignore whatever crazy person was on the other side of my door.

  “Open the door,” Alvaro’s soft, deep voice called out right before the door began to shake under another barrage of knocks.

  Chapter 6

  “I’m coming,” I called as I threw my blankets back.

  The sound of Alvaro’s soft, threatening voice was enough to chase the rest of my tiredness away. He banged on the door again, and I hoped that my neighbors wouldn’t call the police before I could find out what brought the giant man to my door at midnight.

  “Took you long enough,” the dark-haired man huffed when I answered.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled as I fought back a yawn. “I was sleeping.”

  “No excuse,” the intimidating man warned.

  He was so tall that he had to duck his head as he stepped into my apartment without invitation. The bottom half of his wavy hair brushed his shoulders as he looked around, and his dark eyes were almost black as he turned them toward me. He had on the black suit pants he’d worn earlier in the day, but his jacket was gone, and the sleeves of his button-up were rolled up to reveal that he had tattoos down the length of both arms.

  He was accompanied by a man I hadn’t seen before. He was closer to my height with a well-kept black mustache and scruff along his round jawline. He reminded me of a bear with his barrel chest, thick arms, and tree trunk legs. His clothing was a little more casual than Alvaro’s, slacks and a button-up, but they were clean and pressed like he’d just pulled them out of the closet.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked as I looked from the beefy newcomer to the dark-eyed man in my apartment.

  “The boss wants to see you,” Alvaro responded. “Now.”

  “Do I have time to get dressed?” I questioned with a motion to my boxers.

  “Make it quick,” the tall, tattooed man huffed.

  “Sure,” I muttered.

  I marched across the studio apartment to my small closet. I was tempted to put on a band t-shirt in protest, but I ended up slipping into gray slacks and a light-blue button-up.

  “Are you done yet?” my impatient visitor asked just as I finished with my black dress shoes.

  “Yes,” I answered. “So why does the boss need to see me?”

  The giant didn’t answer while his dark eyes swept over my outfit. He gave a grunt of approval, and then spun on his heels. It took him four steps to get across my tiny apartment, and the newcomer quickly moved out of his way.

  I fished my wallet and keys out of my discarded suit and then hurried after the giant before he could come back. He rushed me and the other man down to the street where a black SUV waited on the curb.

  The man, whose name I still didn’t know, slid into the driver’s seat while Alvaro took the back seat and then closed the door behind him. He clearly expected me to sit in the front passenger seat, so I climbed in and tried not to think about the large man right behind me.

  “Where are we going?” I asked as the driver pulled off of the curb and onto the vacant street.

  Neither man answered me, and I swallowed hard as my pulse started to race. I couldn’t think of any reason that Osvaldo would need to see me in the middle of the night. I hadn’t done anything that deserved such a visit that I could remember. I’d dealt with the OSHA inspector, and I’d contacted the prosecutors for the two criminal cases he’d given me, and that was it. So why was his terrifying second-in-command pounding on my door at midnight?

  The streets of Miami were eerily vacant as the mysterious driver sped along. He weaved in and out of the few cars we did come across, and I was amazed that we weren’t pulled over by some bored traffic cop.

  My mouth went dry when the burly man merged onto the highway in the direction of the Everglades. I took a deep breath as I tried to calm my nerves. There was no reason for them to kill me, since I hadn’t had time to do anything wrong. Still, I went back over every little thing I’d done since I’d signed the contract as I tried to come up with a reason for Osvaldo to order my death.

  I should have insisted on driving myself to our destination, I realized. That way, I could escape if I needed to. Though, to be honest, Alvaro hadn’t given me much of an option, and I suspected that if I’d tried to take my own car, Alvaro would have picked me up and tossed me in the SUV without a second thought.

  Every crime drama that had even involved a floating body in the Everglades pushed its way into my mind as we drove further away from the lights of the city and deeper into the slow-moving river of grass. It wouldn’t be hard to feed me to a gator or one of the giant pythons out here, and my body would never be found. My poor mama would never receive her treatments, and would die a painful death from cancer without ever knowing what had happened to me.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked the two men again in a surprisingly calm voice.

  The only response I received was a sideways glance from the mustached driver before he pressed a little harder on the gas pedal. The SUV surged forward until the needle of the speedometer touched one-hundred.

  I could almost feel Alvaro in the seat behind me as he shifted forward, and I was sure that he was about to produce a garrote so he could slice my neck open. It would be messy, but the seats and the dashboard were all leather so it wouldn’t be too difficult to clean, and the Everglades were full of hungry animals that would take care of my body.

  The intimidating man’s breathing was the only sound that I could hear in the quiet of the SUV, and I could have sworn that Alvaro was only inches from me. His shadow fell across me every time we passed beneath a street lamp, and at one point, I could have sworn he raised his hand.

  I wanted to lean forward and turn on the radio, in part to drown out his breathing, but also to put some distance between us. But I didn’t dare touch the stereo buttons after the driver shook his head when I started to reach for the controls. With no other escape available, I stared out the window and tried to ignore the images that played out in my brain.

  I slipped my hand into my pocket and wrapped my fingers around my cell phone, but resisted the urge to call for help before I found out what was actually happening. I was already too far out of the city for anyone to reach me quickly, and if they weren’t about to kill me, then I didn’t want to give them a reason to do exactly that.

  The mysterious driver veered across the three-laned highway, barely missed a white Accord, and took an exit that I didn’t recognize. There were a few gas stations, a McDonalds, and a Wendy’s right off the exit, but we passed all of them as the burly man drove away from any signs of civilization.

  Just as I was sure that I was about to be murdered and fed to a gator, we reached a sleepy town that sprang up out of the long stretch of road. I waited and held my breath while I tried to memorize every detail, just in case, but then we pulled into the parking lot of a police station.

  Osvaldo Fuentes was silhouetted by the wall
of windows behind him, but his large frame was unmistakable as he turned toward the SUV. The vehicle stopped right in front of the muscular man, and before I could open my door, he had yanked it open.

  “It took you long enough,” the gruff Cuban snarled to the driver before he turned his attention to me. “I expect nothing but perfection.”

  His tone was almost a growl as he stepped aside so that I could climb out of the SUV. He was still backlit by the bright fluorescent lights of the police station, and the shadows cast over his face made his scar on his right cheek look more menacing.

  Alvaro unfolded his massive frame, stepped nimbly from our ride, and then leaned in to say something to the driver. He spoke so quietly that I couldn’t hear what was said, though I thought I heard the name Camilo. The driver nodded, and then Alvaro shut the door.

  “What are we doing here?” I asked as I looked from one man to the other.

  “My son has been arrested,” the president of Fuentes Shipping huffed as he stuffed his hands into his pockets.

  His eyes flashed with rage, and a shiver ran down my spine as his gaze met mine.

  “For what?” I asked in what I hoped was a respectful tone.

  The more information I had before we went in, the better, but the burly man just grunted. He glanced at Alvaro, and the tall tattooed man opened the door to the station instead.

  It was a small police station compared to the ones in Miami, but the white tile floors and wooden benches were the same. There were posters of wanted criminals and information for emergency services on the pale-gray walls. The scent of stale coffee lingered in the air and mixed with the smell of bleach and BO. Somewhere, a radio clicked in and out with static-filled dispatches from the officers that were on patrol.

  The front counter was just a normal office desk with a tan laminate cover and pens that were chained to the scarred surface. There were three clipboards with bail forms to the right and a computer to the left. Behind the desk sat an older woman with faded red hair, glasses, and a faded uniform that had seen better days.

  “We’re here for Camilo Fuentes,” Osvaldo barked at the female officer.

  The woman looked up from her book with a bored expression that quickly turned into fear as she saw the scarred man’s glare. Her eyes darted up to Alvaro and then quickly moved on to me. She shoved a receipt in between the pages of her book and then set it aside as she gave Osvaldo her full attention.

  “C-Camilo Fuentes?” the officer stuttered underneath the harsh stare of the muscular man.

  “Yes,” my new employer snapped. “I’m his father.”

  “Of-of course,” the flustered woman agreed as she nodded her head.

  Her wrinkled hands shook as she picked up the intake clipboard and flipped through the papers. She stopped on one with a dark-red jelly donut stain, and her lips pressed together as she read it over. She bobbed her head as she took in the information and then risked another glance at the angry father.

  “Well, where is he?” Osvaldo demanded. His voice was a low growl, and his beefy hands curled into fists at his side.

  “Interview room 2,” she answered as she quickly looked away from him. “It’s the second door on the left.”

  She pointed toward the hallway to our right as she started to reach for the old landline phone. No doubt she was about to warn someone of our arrival, but that seemed like the least of our worries at the moment.

  Osvaldo grunted at the woman before he spun on his heels and stormed away. He didn’t bother to knock when he reached the dark-green metal door. He simply grabbed the handle and flung the door open. It swung inwards so hard that it bounced against the bluish-gray cement wall and startled the young blonde officer that sat opposite a teenage boy.

  Camilo Fuentes had the same short, dark hair as his father, though his brown eyes were a deeper brown. His lanky frame was wrapped in muscles, and I decided that the muscle look must be popular with the Fuentes clan and their lackeys. Curiously, the youth wore a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, pressed black slacks, and shiny ebony dress shoes. Not exactly standard fare for a teenage boy in Miami.

  The younger Fuentes sat in one of the two silver metal chairs in the room with his feet propped up on the shiny chrome table, and his seat tilted back to balance on the back two legs. He used the circular handcuff ring on the top of the table to keep himself braced. He slowly pulled his eyes away from his reflection in the two-way mirror behind the policeman when we entered, and eased himself forward until the chair was balanced on all four legs.

  “Oh, hey, dad,” the boy said with a smirk. “Took you long enough.”

  “Shut it,” the frustrated father growled.

  “Hello,” I greeted the policeman as he stood. “I’m Rob Torres, Mr. Fuentes’ attorney.”

  “Hello,” the man responded as his eyes darted between all of us and then settled on me as the least threatening adult. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need to talk to my son in private,” my employer answered. “Get out.”

  “Would you mind letting me speak to my client?” I asked quickly when the officer started to frown. “Without the cameras or listening devices. Though I’m sure you knew that.”

  The man’s fear melted away after Osvaldo snapped at him, and his shoulders were tense with anger as he focused his attention on me. He looked like he wanted to argue, but he couldn’t risk losing the case before we’d even made it before a judge by not letting me speak to my client.

  “Sure,” the officer finally said through gritted teeth.

  He gave Alvaro and the boss a wide berth as he left the room with his hands in his pockets, but his head was held high.

  I shut the door behind him and then turned my eyes toward the camera in the top corner of the room as I waited for the little red dot to blink out. When the video device was turned off, I gave Osvaldo a small nod and watched as the burly man stomped over and threw himself into the recently vacated chair across the table from his son.

  “So,” I started as I focused on Camilo. “What happened?”

  “I went for a stroll in the Everglades,” the teenage boy answered with a roll of his eyes.

  “Don’t get smart,” Osvaldo snapped.

  “Can’t help it,” the young man shrugged.

  “Get your feet off the table,” his father said as he slapped his son’s shoes. “Answer Rob’s question.”

  “Rob?” the dark-haired youth laughed. “That’s perfect.”

  Alvaro let out the smallest sigh from behind me before he moved to become one with the shadows near the door. He had his hands in his pockets, and he leaned against one of the walls. He looked deceptively relaxed, but if anyone burst in he was in the perfect position to strike with his long limbs.

  “Don’t be a smartass,” my new employer said as he tapped his fingers on the metal table.

  His rolex glinted in the fluorescent lighting of the police station, but it was the only thing about him that still looked perfect, I realized. His suit had a few wrinkles, and purple bags had started to form under his eyes from the lack of sleep.

  “Another thing I inherited from you,” the teen retorted as he pulled his feet down and sat up straight.

  “What brings us here in the middle of the night?” I asked before the two could continue their back and forth.

  “It was just a bit of fun,” Camilo shrugged.

  “Okay,” I said with a reassuring smile.

  It was always a pain to pry information from a teenager, especially when they were in trouble with the law, and I braced myself for a long struggle as I tried to figure out what my client’s son had done. I ran a hand through my hair as I looked around for a chair that wasn’t there.

  “You’re just gonna have to stand,” the teen sneered when he saw me glance around.

  “Then let’s make this quick,” I countered. “What kind of fun were you having when you got picked up?”

  “I was at work, obviously,” the dark-hair
ed young man said with a gesture to his button-up and slacks.

  “Where is that?” I asked as I fought back a yawn.

  I fished my phone out of my pocket and then pulled up my favorite note taking app. It was a lifesaver when I didn’t have pen or paper available, especially when I was so exhausted.

  “Cocina Cubana de Miami,” Osvaldo answered for his son.

  “Okay,” I wrote down the name of the familiar restaurant.

  It was a staple of Miami’s higher end restaurants, so I rarely went on my public defender salary, but a few of the prosecutors I met with outside of work had insisted we eat there once. It was delicious, almost as good as my mother’s food, though it was a little more sophisticated than what she made. It had a price tag to match that sophistication, and that was after I’d ordered the least expensive item on the menu.

  “I’m a busboy,” the younger Cuban man said with a shrug. “Dad here thinks it’ll build character.”

  The teen rolled his eyes as if his father was ridiculous.

  “That makes sense,” I nodded. “So how did you end up here?”

  “Well,” Camilo grinned at me with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “My buddy found a really nice car. A Lamborghini Aventador. Bright red. Brand new.”

  “He found it?” I asked as I lifted an eyebrow at him.

  “Technically, someone gave him the keys,” the dark-haired teen responded.

  “A valet, then,” I muttered while I took note. “At the restaurant?”

  “Yeah,”the teen said with a twinge of irritation that I hadn’t taken the bait and asked why someone would’ve given his friends the keys to such an expensive car.

  “Where’s this friend now?” Osvaldo questioned.

  His scowl was terrifying, even in the safety of the police station, and the poor lighting cast shadows on his scar to make him look twice as threatening as he leaned forward in his seat.

  “Shit, do I look like a fortune teller?” the teen retorted, and I was surprised that his father didn’t lunge across the table at him.